


AUgust - And the Month I Bite off More than I can chew

by Anon_E_Miss



Category: Transformers - AU, Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and other garbage, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-06-20 10:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 59,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15532533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_E_Miss/pseuds/Anon_E_Miss
Summary: Not only is it AUgust, it is also the my birthday month, so I am going to celebrate by tormenting myself with a bunch of little AUs.Pray for me. Or don't.





	1. Soul Mates

At this stage in his life, Prowl had resigned himself to a life, and a death entirely on his own. The crystal seal over his spark was intact, the faint servo print at its centre barely discernable. None of his feckless lovers’ servos had matched it. Chromedome had taken a parting shot as they had separated, and mockingly claimed there was no servo print at all, that Prowl was was so cold that there was no sparkmate waiting for him, that would require him to have a spark. In turn, the slagtard had told Rewind, his next flame, the joke, in turn Rewind had told every single Autobot that bothered to sit near him for half a nanoklik. It had become something of a joke amongst the enlisted mechanisms. Prowl was not laughing. He had rarely been inclined to join in the celebrations hosted at the base prior to this disaster, the Praxian had not attended one since.

 

It was his Creation-Cycle this mega-cycle, it also marked his twelve hundredth vorn, and he was alone. Smokescreen had harangued him to go to the oil bar, to celebrate the milestone, but at the last nanoklik he had had an emergency in his practice, and so Prowl was sitting at the bar, alone. Really, this was hardly an anomalous occasion, over the course of his life, the tactician had spent more Creation-Cycles alone than with others. His procreators had stopped hosting parties for him when he had glitched on time too many. Once they had no longer been responsible for such celebrations they had altogether forgotten their second creation’s Creation-Cycle. Until Smokescreen had gone away to school, it had been the two of them, just the two of them, most of the time. But then Smokescreen had gone to Iacon to study at the Academy, much against the wishes of their procreators, and he had not come back for a long time. Of course he had called, but it weighed on a young mech, even one as solitary as Prowl had been, to make your own dinner, and to purchase your own oil cake because no one else could be bothered. He had stopped even going that far before he had gone through his final upgrade. This stellar-cycle was meant to have been different, but there was no sense in dwelling on it. When their schedules aligned again, he and Smokescreen would go the oil bar and toast the vorn, the exact mega-cycle hardly mattered.

 

“Not where I’d o’ thought to find ya,” Jazz said as he took the seat beside Prowl. As caught up as he had been in his self-pitying thoughts, the Praxian had not heard him approach, which only annoyed him further.

 

“Smokescreen and I were meant to meet,” Prowl replied, not as though he owed the saboteur an explanation, but the mere audacity of sitting next to him was no excuse to be short with him. “There was an emergency at the clinic.”

 

“I heard,” the Polihexian said, and he lounged against the bar. “What’s yer poison? I’ll buy ya a drink.”

 

“Why?” The tactician asked, he turned to his not entirely wanted companion. If Jazz was hoping to buy Prowl’s stamp on some harebrained mission, a drink was not going to do the job.

 

“’Cause it’s yer Creation-Cycle ‘n ya shouldn’t have’ta buy yer own engex,” Jazz replied with a careless shrug.

 

“I was not aware you knew,” Prowl said.

 

“Smokescreen bowed out o’ a session, he told me why,” the saboteur explained. “Heard about the clinic, tried to find ya at yer office but ya actually left on time for a change. Didn’t expect to find ya here but glad I did. Sucks slag to spend yer Creation-Cycle alone.”

 

“It would hardly have been the first,” the Praxian said, immediately he regretted speaking, to cover for the slip he extrapolated. “I have often worked it.”

 

“Ya worked this one, mech!” Jazz scolded. “Come on, let’s have a drink, it’s somethin’ o’ a milestone, ain’t it?”

 

Jazz had invited him out several times over their stellar-cycles working together. The unconventional Third-in-Command had often urged Prowl to relax, or to unwind. He remained the only Autobot who tried to convince the tactician to attend those accursed parties. Apart from Smokescreen, Jazz was really the only Autobot who tried to get Prowl to go out. Ratchet harangued him to have maintenance checks, Optimus checked to ensure he did not want some festival off, that he was not working himself to his struts. No, the saboteur was the only one who tried to get Prowl to have fun, and he had him cornered now. There was no reason he could think of to decline the Polihexian’s company now, they were already at the oil bar, and the prospect of spending this Creation-Cycle alone really was a miserable thing.

 

“I generally drink obsidian tea,” Prowl said at last. Jazz grinned at him, and the Praxian smiled back, he looked away a nanoklik later. “Thank you.”

 

“My pleasure,” the Polihexian replied, he turned to the femme working the counter. “An obsidian tea ‘n a Raging Shandy, please.”

 

“Was your meeting successful?” The tactician asked, hoping to avoid an awkward silence. His companion laughed.

 

“Was fine, let’s forget work for a few joors,” Jazz said. “Now I know ya just ‘bout recharge in yer office, but ya much have hobbies, somethin’ ya do for fun.”

 

“I... read,” Prowl replied, chagrined but feeling indebted enough to answer the mech’s casual question. “I play Triad, and kill crystals.”

 

“Ya kill crystals?” The saboteur asked. “Now there’s gotta be a story there.”

 

“Growing crystals is a common hobby in Praxus,” the Praxian explained. “I inevitably kill them by some manner of neglect. I replace them each time.”

 

Despite himself, Prowl relaxed, and enjoyed Jazz’s company. Though the tactician, by force of habit, brought the conversation to the Autobots and the war a couple of times, the Polihexian easily steered it back onto a more personal theme. Prowl was being herded, in an odd way, but he concluded that he did not mind. There was nothing he revealed that Jazz could use against him, not embarrassing confessions, not that the saboteur asked for any. He learned they shared a fondness for Triad, and Fullstasis, and they had some favourite authors in common. They had more in common than Prowl might have expected, considering their diametrically opposite personalities. It was easy to relax with Jazz, easy to let down his guard a bit, and that was something of a surprise. When the Polihexian asked more about his crystals, the tactician rather impulsively invited Jazz to return to his habsuite with him to see his current collection. To his utter amazement, the saboteur enthusiastically agreed.

 

They finished their drinks, and Jazz paid the tab. There was a flutter in Prowl’s spark and he could not decide if this was anxiety or anticipation. It had been more than just a while since the Praxian had interfaced, Chromedome had made the idea of future courtships entirely unpalatable. Prowl did not interface casually, this was not the dark-cycle to start. Jazz certainly had a reputation, but so did he, and the tactician knew there was little truth in his own. So where did that leave... this? Did he actually want to interface with the Polihexian. As TIC, Jazz was Prowl’s immediate subordinate in theory, but by his nature as Special Ops commander, the saboteur operated largely independent of the Praxian’s purview. Romantic relationships between officers, and the enlisted were strictly against protocol, between equals there was more wiggle room. Prowl did not want a romantic relationship with Jazz. To be more accurate, he did not want a romantic relationship within anyone but the one who’s servo matched the groove on his crystal seal, even if that meant he was fated to remain alone. Perhaps that meant he should open himself up to interface without strings. It seemed likely this was the only interface he was likely to get for the foreseeable future.

 

He led Jazz up to his habsuite, a small and simple unit. Officially he could afford something larger, and more luxurious, but since he lived alone, Prowl had never seen the point. Jazz did not comment on his simple furnishings, or his lacklustre decor, he did not seem to look particularly long at any one thing, and the Praxian relaxed a little. It did not appear like the saboteur was judging him, and it was... nice. Prowl led him to the table set along the windows in his livingroom. His current crystal arrangement had lasted longer than the last few, the crystals were not as bright as those of the Helix gardens but they seemed healthy enough, for now. The largest crystal was a clear, pale blue, and it was suspended in the centre of the display, surround by smaller crystals of different shades of blue. But the colours were not why Prowl had chosen them, or why he had arranged them as he had. Prowl knelt in front of the table, and vented lightly at the crystals. As they shifted in the methane gas, they vibrated, they sang.

 

“That’s beautiful,” Jazz said, and he knelt next to Prowl, looking but not touching. “I heart they sang in the Helix Gardens, didn’t think ya could reproduce it anywhere else.”

 

“The Helix Gardens are the largest scale gardens, but they are not unique,” the Praxian explained. “Most households have arrangements like this, often bigger, in and around their homes. Mine is not particularly complex.”

 

“It’s beautiful,” the saboteur said. “It sounds beautiful. Did ya arrange’em yerself?”

 

“I did,” Prowl replied. “I was hoped to balance the aesthetic of the crystals with a pleasing sound.”

 

“I’d say ya did,” Jazz said. “It’s soft ‘n sweet.”

 

They were shoulder to shoulder, and as if they had the same thought, they both turned. Jazz cupped Prowl’s chin, leaned up, and the tactician knew exactly what the mech wanted, and he leaned in to the Polihexan. Their mouths met, Jazz’s fuller lipplates brushed against Prowl’s so lightly. It was sent a tingle down the Praxian’s struts, this was probably a mistake. Maybe Jazz had only purchased him engex motivated by the prospect of this, or maybe he was genuinely interested, neither had disengaged their fuel intake moderation chips, they were sober, and consenting adults. Prowl wanted to believe the intentions of his companion were good, he insisted on believing this, so he pulled Jazz closer and kissed him deeply. He felt the mech’s hummed of approval and it warmed him straight to his core.

 

“Prowl,” Jazz purred his designation as he broke away to kiss his audial.

 

The saboteur’s black servo stroked down his chassis, not quite fondling him, almost caressing. It was a new touch, Prowl had been touched this way before, but it felt different, and as he angled his chassis into Jazz’s caress, his plating split apart, without his command. He felt dazed, and then the Polihexian’s servo smoothed over his crystal seal, and perfectly covered that faintest of grooves. Cracks formed in Prowl’s seal, it was absolutely painless, and it spiralled apart, revealing his spark to the other mech. Prowl stared down at his own spark, at the servo just brushing the edge of his chamber. Then he looked up at Jazz with complete shock. Smile warm and sure, Jazz took Prowl’s servo in his as he parted his own armour, and revealed a crystal seal of his own. As Prowl stared, the Polihexian brought drew his servo to his spark seal, and cup into over the groove in his own spark. Under the tactician’s servo, that seal cracked, then spiralled back into Jazz’s protoform. Still in disbelief, Prowl stared at the other mech’s spark. It was the most beautiful thing he had scene. Slowly, the shock subsided and he looked down at Jazz’s face.

 

“How did you know?” He asked, voice full of awe.

 

“I heard yer spark keep time with mine,” Jazz replied. “The first time I met ya, but I could get close to ya. I heard the slag the others said, ‘n realized that mess had made ya guarded ‘n shy. So I figured I’d take my time wit ya, take an opening when I could find one.”

 

“There was no emergency at the clinic,” Prowl said.

 

“No,” the saboteur said. “Smokey sacrificed a dark-cycle out so I could take my shot.”

 

“I owe him a drink,” the Praxian said. He leaned down and kissed Jazz again. When the Polihexian drew him in, chassis to chassis, Prowl followed willingly. As their spark chambers met, their spark surged forward. They wove together, and became one.


	2. College

The greenhouse was not one of Jazz’s usual haunts, but he had heard talk about some Praxian crystals being cultivated by the horticultural department, and the Polihexian was curious if the stories were true. They were called singing crystals, and since music was just about the focus of his life, it seemed like something he would want to see, or more importantly to hear. He had heard about the crowds when the crystals had first arrived, and had decided to wait until the crowds had thinned. It had taken the better part of the quartex, but the mystique appeared to have warn off, and there was no line at the greenhouse as he strolled up, late into the mid-cycle. There was no one milling about when he stepped inside, and walked passed the temperature sensitive crystals that grew towards the front of the space. Jazz followed the signs, and the curving path and made his way to the new exhibit space. As he turned the corner, the Polihexian found he was not alone, a familiar and not to friendly form was bent over a long bench along side the suspended crystals. 

“Prowl, right?” He asked, as he walked up. Jazz figured the mech must have heard him coming up, or sensed him with those doors, but the mech in questioned straightened up as he spoke, with the faintest expression of surprise.

“Yes,” the monochrome Praxian said. “You are Jazz.”

“That I am,” Jazz replied. He looked at the mass of crystals at Prowl’s back. They hung close together, suspended in an artful cascade, in a gradient of dark to light blue. “That’s impressive.”

“I suppose,” Prowl said, and he turned and faced it. After a nanoklik of thought, the Praxian walked towards the clusters and tapped the closes crystal. It was nothing like Jazz had expected. The crystals seemed to screech as they shuttered in the methane cloud. The sound was so awful the Polihexian reached up and covered his audial horns.

“That’s fraggin’ awful,” he hissed.

“It is,” the stoic mech agreed. “They have been arranged like terrestrial crystals. The Praxian varient requires proper spacing to allow the sound and shock waves space to spread out, else the effect is jarring.”

“That’s one way to put it,” the Polihexian said. “Is that what yer doin’ over there? Spacin’ proper?”

“That is correct,” Prowl replied. “If you wish to wait, I only need to place a few more crystals before I can test it.”

“’M game,” Jazz declared. Knowing well enough to keep out of an artist’s space, he stood back, and waited. “Are ya actually studying horticulture?”

“No,” the Praxian replied. “I required an elective. The professor is an unpleasant mechanism, I do not believe I will take any future classes on this subject.”

“That’s a shame,” the musician said. “Is fixin’ this an assignment.”

“No,” Prowl replied, and he set the last crystal into place. “During the last session, the professor had a fit regarding these crystals. He called the name, Singing Crystal, fraud. I informed him that they had clearly not been arranged by anyone familiar with their nature. He had arranged them. He did not appreciate his work being criticized in front of the class. I have been charged with arranging these crystals how I believe they are meant to be. Failure to improve their sound will threaten my final grade.”

“That’s slag,” Jazz snarled. Prowl flexed his doorwings.

“I am not concerned,” the stoic mech said, his tapped a crystal, and a quiet melody played out as each crystal began to ring.

“I know this song,” the Polihexian exclaimed. “Prima’s Sojurn. How’d ya know how to arrange’em?”

“I followed this composition,” Prowl explained as he held up a tablet. “There not enough space to do the whole arrangement. I thought these stanza were the most recognizable.”

“No question ‘bout that,” Jazz replied. “Ya got the highest grade in our international law class, so I know ya know yer slag there, but I never heard ya speak up in class. What got a ya to stand against this prof?”

“I could not tolerate hearing my home libelled,” the Praxian explained. “There are countless books on the matter of the Singing Crystals, volumes of compositions. Had he been bothered to he could have learned what he needed to by doing even the slightest amount of research. Instead, he took a piece of my culture and made a mockery of it.”

“I think yer gonna have him eatin’ his glyphs,” the musician said. “Do ya wanna grab a cube with me in the student union? We got that group project comin’ up. Last term I noticed ya did’em all solo. Did ya wanna team up? ‘M in the top ten percentile, I ain’t gonna frag yer grade.”

“It is a presentation,” Prowl replied. “I am more likely to frag your grade.”

“I think we can work somethin’ out,” Jazz declared.

Over a pair of cubes and some energon goodies, they got to know each other. Prowl, as Jazz had suspected, was wickedly brilliant, but fairly hopeless when it came to social interactions. Still, he was actually really great company. It took some stubbornness on Jazz’s part to draw it out, but after a joor, the first trickles of the Praxian’s private personality came out. He did have a sense of humour, a wry one, and the musician was more than a bit delighted by it. They became wrapped up each other’s company and before either noticed to care, it was dark-cycle. Jazz regretted leaving the other at to return to his dorm, while Prowl drove to his off campus housing. This was a mech he thought he wanted to know better, wanted in his berth, for more than a little while. Mooning over a classmates was a rather predicable pursuit, but the Polihexian figured it would not hurt to oggle the mech as they worked on their project, and maybe flirt until Prowl actually noticed.

The next mega-cycle, Jazz made his way back to the greenhouse. He was skipping class, but he thought it was for a great cause. Prowl’s class would be in the greenhouse for their session, and the Polihexian wanted to see that professor eat scrap. Most of the class had already gathered by the time the musician arrived, Prowl was standing next to the crystals he had arranged, looking confident, and touchable. There was no doubt this mech was gorgeous, Jazz had fawned over those pretty doors the whole previous semester. Ric would cackle at him for having a thing for the strong and silent type, but... anyone with a decent set of optics would give Prowl more than just a second glance. Since he was not part of the class, Jazz kept to the back, but right within the Praxian’s line of sight. They locked optics, and a ghost of a smile spread on Prowl’s faceplates. The professor arrived after all of the students had gathered. He looked between his grand crystal display to Prowl’s more sparse arrangement, and sneered. Glyphlessly, the stoic mech tapped a single crystal and Prima’s Sojurn rang out. 

“Now that’s music to my audials,” Jazz purred in a stage whisper. 

Everyone in the greenhouse heard him, and a nanoklik later, there was a tidal wave of voices heaping their approval on Prowl. It was endearing, the way the Praxian’s doorwings tipped as his classmates searched forward to ask questions and to examine the arrangement. Prowl had not been expected this reaction, obviously. He looked ready to run, though he did not. As the students surrounded their new star classmate, the professor made a quick exit. If he made a play for Prowl’s grade, Jazz thought the class were give him the appropriate amount of slag. It was a joor before the last of the Praxian’s classmates left him, and Jazz was finally safe to approach. Except he was not the only one walking towards Prowl. Another Praxian, a considerably more colourful one, came up from the other path.

“Piece of advice, Prowl,” the newcomer said. “Don’t take another class with him next semester.”

“I do not intend to,” Prowl replied. “Jazz. I was not expecting you.”

“Figured it’d be fun to watch his face,” Jazz replied. "I saved an image capture. He looked like he drank some sour energon.”

“Thank you,” the monochrome Praxian said. He glanced at the other Praxian, who looked between them with browridge raised. “Smokescreen, Jazz. Jazz, my brother. Do not believe a single thing he says.”


	3. Vampire/Sparkeater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cough... I'm not sorry. Not even a little. This chapter would be the excuse for the rating's change. I've utilized my Amalgii species, with some added quirks, modeled off the lamia. Enjoy!

“Amalgus,” a stern voice spoke from across the alley. Jazz dropped his prey. That brief and precious moment where the innermost energon was still fluid around the mech’s guttered spark was lost. He was not amused. There was a faint, but cloying scent in the air, and it came from the newcomer. The Amalgus turned with his helm angled so his long and sharp fangs caught the light.

 

“Brave of ya to confront me,” the Amalgus purred, darkly. “Given what ya are.”

 

“I will not have you hunting in my city,” the Praxian, because of course he was a Praxian, replied. He did not flinch at Jazz’s implication.

 

“Priest o’ Epistemus,” Jazz said, reading the brands on the mech’s doorwings as if the sun wave high in the sky. “Or should I call ya, High Priest? Or Praefectus?”

 

“Neither,” the Chieft Enforcer replied. “You will not prey on my citizens.”

 

“Take a look at’m mech, I don’t think ya wanna claim’m,” the monster said, and he gestured to the corpse.

 

The Enforcer did not immediately step forward. Standing as he was, doorwings spread wide, he blocked Jazz’s exit, and he had an easy escape for him. But if he stepped deeper into the alley, he was easy prey, and he must have known. To the Amalgus’ surprise, the purus priest walked into the alley, taking long strides, back straight, optics clear and sharp. Really, Jazz had expected the mech to run, to seek aid of another Enforcers. Never mind he was a purus faced with one rumoured to feed off them, this was the High Priest Epistemus for all of Petrex, the Praefectus Vigilum of its Enforcers. What was he doing patrolling the streets anyways? Always adept at thinking on his peds, the Amalgus stepped aside so that the Enforcer could examine his victim. Though surely he was afraid, the mech knelt next to the frame, never once glancing, even side long, at Jazz.

 

“I am familiar with this mech,” the Praxian declared, without emotion. “He is no purus.”

 

“But he is a murderer,” the Amalgus replied. “Wit a high fa-looting family, he got out post trial in killed another bitlet two-cycles ago.”

 

“I am aware,” the Enforcer said. “How did you know to target him. Why?”

 

“Now ya can’t expect a mech to give up his trade secrets,” Jazz purred. “Point is, my kind wouldn’t do so well if we only fed off purus, they’re a limited resource. ‘N ya know what they say, when an Amalgus is done wit a purus, they ain’t so pure anymore.”

 

“You are an assassin,” the Priest said. “You feast off your targets, after the kill?”

 

“There a couple o’ nanoklik were the ambrosia’s still fluid after death,” the hunter said. “Ya ruined my meal.”

 

“I hope you do not expect me to apologize,” the Enforcer replied.

 

“No,” Jazz laughed.

 

His visor glowed, and it was all the warning the Enforcer had. Moving faster than even a speedster, the Amalgii pinned the Praxian back against the alley wall. The Enforcer did not go without a fight, and his movements suggested a specialty in some martial art. But hampered by the darkness, Jazz’s speed was too much to overcome. He did smell delicious. Not simply sweet, but deep, and heady. Close as he was, there was no escaping the Praxian’s intoxicating scent. For the first time in a very long time, Jazz was captivated by a purus. The last one he had never managed to claim, Ricochet had, and to be fair Artfire and he were perfection, but this one, this was... Pinning him, showing him he ought to be afraid, to be cautious had been a mistake. Jazz was not sure he could pull away.

 

“Ya shouldn’t walk into back alleys with strangers,” he said, face buried in the tolerate mech’s neck. “’Specially one like me.”

 

“I ruined you dinner,” the Enforcer said, he raised his chin, as if to try to arch out of Jazz’s reach. It did not work. What he said next almost turned Jazz on his helm. “I suppose I could make it up to you.”

 

“Sweetspark, I wouldn’t stop at yer energon,” Jazz replied. “I know my limits.”

 

“I am not attached to my seals,” the mech said, without any inflection.

 

“’N yet yer a purus,” the Amalgus replied. Really, he should not have been trying to talk the mech out of it, really, but his procreators had taught him to be honourable. It was a fragging pain in the aft. “An old one, at that.”

 

“I am not old,” the Priest countered. “I am a purus by matter of the fact I dislike the company of others.”

 

“Now that’s a new one,” Jazz said. He felt the other mech shrug his shoulders and doorwings, as best he could under the Amalgus’ hold.

 

“They are not fond of my company either,” the Enforcer extrapolated. “I do not want you hunting in my city. I interrupted your meal, it goes without saying you will hunt again, or starve. I do not imagine you intend to starve.”

 

“Mm, no...” the hunter hummed. “Don’t plan on starvin’. Already am, to be fair... okay, since ya talked me into it... where ya wanna go? Ain’t takin’ ya back to my lair... Nothin’ personal.”

 

“I have a habsuite down the street,” the Priest offered.

 

“Ya weren’t patrollin’ then, ya were just goin’ home,” Jazz said. “Lucky me, I think.”

 

He stepped back away from the Praxian and allowed him to move off the wall. The Enforcer only lightly flexed his doorwings, the motion captured Jazz’s optics. They were an aspect of Praxian physiology that the Amalgus had not been able to properly mimic. Though he could wear them, as he could the shape of any mechanisms or beast, he did not speak the language. As the mech watched, Jazz shifted, doorwings grew out his back, and his audial horns softened to the point they all but blended into his helm. For the first time since their encountered had begun, there was a clear expression on the Enforcer’s faceplates. It was not fear, as in generally was, but curiosity.

 

“Well, lead the way,” the Amalgus said.

 

Again, he had expected the Praxian to hesitate, but instead the mech beckoned for him to follow and set off down the street. The complex the Enforcer led him to was nice enough, a pair of security drones guarded the gates. Jazz linked his arm with the purus, and cuddled close as they approached the gate. His companion tensed and straightened, but resigned without struggling. Drones had simple enough programming. If one a mechanisms was in close proximity to one of their residents, they would not stop and ask for any identification, or verify they were permitted. If an unknown visitor was tangled up with one of the residents it was fairly obvious what they were there for. As he had planned, the guard drones opened the gates and the Praxian led him inside. In absolute silence he led the Amalgus to the elevator and selected the top floor.

 

“Mmm, lots o’ privacy,” he observed.

 

“I like my space,” the Enforcer replied. “At my last habsuite my neighbours complained about my joors. Here I have only one neighbour and he has no business complaining about the joors I keep.”

 

“Sounds perfect,” Jazz said.

 

The elevator doors opened at the top floor, and the Praxian led him to the habsuite that made up the left side of the building. It was a good sized space. Priest of Epistemus did well enough, but this suggested a higher income than Jazz would have expected. Things might have been different in Praxus than in Polihex or Iacon, but he somewhat doubted it. This smelled of family credits, not that he was going to complain. A habsuite in a place like this promised of a nice berth, a prospect Jazz delighted in. He had been recharging in the rough more often than he had like these last quartexes. In fact, this was meant to be his last job before he return to Doradus for a break. A feed, on more than one level, off a purus would be a very sweet close to his deployment. 

 

For all the habsuite had good struts, it was very plainly decorated. Jazz would have expected the walls to hold at least some honour or medal, given the Praxian’s rank, but the walls were plain, except where they were covered by shelves full to the brim with datapads. If this mech had family credits, he had not used them to make himself a splashy base. It was almost a shame, any hardworking mechanism out to have an inviting place to unwind in, this looked more like a hotel. But he was not here to judge the Enforcer taste in interior design. He wondered how they were going to go about this, if the Praxian was going to lose his nerve, but the purus went straight for the door across the room, and gestured for Jazz to follow. Maybe he was in a hurry, maybe he wanted to get it over with, but the Amalgus had no intention of rushing this. 

 

“What’s yer designation?” He asked as he followed his quarry into the berthroom. It had a warmer, more welcoming feel than the livingroom. A row of crystals of different colours and sizes lined the window, a large, soft looking berth filled out most of the room. 

 

“Prowl,” the mech replied.

 

“’M Jazz,” the Amalgus volunteered. “Try ‘n relax. I ain’t just gonna jump ya. This is ‘sposed to be a good time, how we get repeat volunteers.”

 

“You get volunteers?” Prowl asked, either surprised or curious.

 

“Sure,” Jazz said. “Most o’ us don’t venture far from home. Our communities are usually a mix o’ Amalgii ‘n willin’ fuel. I live a lil different.”

 

“You are far from home,” the Praxian replied.

 

“Yep,” the hunter confirmed. “I’ll be on my way soon, but I won’t get there wit out this… So thanks for not fraggin’ me o’er.”

 

“You are welcome,” Prowl said. 

 

“I could try,” Jazz offered. “Can’t promise anythin’ but I could try just to feed.”

 

“I would rather be rid of my seals,” the Enforcer replied. “My clan is attempting to arrange my bonding to a mech I find distasteful. They cannot force me, and I have refused. But even when they give up on this one, they will try again, as they have before. But if I am no longer a purus they will never be able to arrange a match, and I can continue with my life as I see fit.”

 

“Okay then,” the Amalgus said. “Than I think we outta get started.”

 

He took the Praxian’s helm in his servos and pulled him down for a kiss. Though Prowl was surprised, and did not immediately respond, he relaxed bit by bit and kissed Jazz back. It was not the kiss of a total notice, but the Enforcer had most definitely not shared too many secret kisses behind any garden walls. This was all the sweeter for the Amalgus, he was going to expand the purus’ world, and experience a first for himself. The elders spoke about the act of taking the seals of a purus as something of a sacred rite, an act of worship. Jazz had not understood then, he did not now, but he wanted to see if it held up to the stories, and he was quite frankly starved, and not just for energon.

 

Jazz guided Prowl to the berth as he broke away from the  Enforcer ’s mouth, and mouthed at his neck. His arms wound around the taller mech’s back, and he buried his digits i n the mechanism of the Praxian’s doorwings. Prowl groaned audibly, as he writhed under Jazz’s experienced servos. He never got tired of wings, flight or sensory, there was something about the way they moved, and how they could make a mechanism melt. Though he could have toyed with them forever, the Amalgus wanted to take full advantage of the banquet he had been offered.  To his pleasure, his quiet companion was not inclined to lay back and think of Praxus, but rather he moaned and ventilated hard, as he tried not to wriggle and writhe too much. 

 

“I… thought you were starving,” Prowl said, voice husky. His own servos were curled over Jazz shoulders as the Amalgus dragged his digits across those wide panels, and around to his curved chassis.

 

“This’ll make it taste all the sweeter,” Jazz replied. But he was starving. He pulled away and stepped back, and shifted again. The doorwings disappeared into his back and his audial horns extended. This form had always felt most right to him. It felt a bit like home. “Lay back, lover. Show me yer spark.”

 

Prowl hesitated a nanoklik, he was bright opticed, his faceplates were dotted with condesation, and his vents were flared wide. He looked ready halfway debauched, and Jazz was just about desperate to take him the rest of the way. As the Praxian did as he was asked, finally, his scent became stronger, richer, and impossible to deny. Jazz was on him, the next nanoklik, inhaling that scent.  Behind the seal of its chamber, Prowl’s spark pulsed quickly. It was not the mech’s spark the Amalgus wanted. Rather, it was the large energon lines that spiraled around his sparked. Gliding his servos over Prowl’s chassis, Jazz pulled the armour apart, baring more protoform, baring those lines. Without further theatrics, the starved creature took on line into his mouth and bit down just enough to puncture the service. Before Prowl could jerk away at that brief flash of pain, Jazz pinned him to the berth by his wrist, threw his weight forward and sucked. 

 

“Oh!” Prowl gasped with surprise as pain fled and pleasure exploded through his circuits. There was a little something special in Amalgii oral lubricants. It was not enough to hypnotize an unwilling victim, fear easily overrode arousal, but in moments like this it worked wonders. “It… I am… hot… you have an aphrodisiac… That… that is why you have volunteers.”

 

“Mhm,” Jazz hummed into the lined as he continued to suck. Now that Prowl had forgotten the pain, the Amalgus released his wrists, and returned to his task of making the sing his praises.

 

As he smoothed his servo down the Praxian’s flexing midsection, he pulled back from Prowl’s chassis and took the moment to watched the mech’s face as he found his interface array already bared to his greedy servo. Prowl looked up at him with a dazed expression, and Jazz grinned. They had only just begun and the Enforcer already looked like his processor had blown. No matter, when the Amalgus was done, Prowl would not know which way was up. He returned to the energon line, and lapped up the linking innermost energon. His digits lightly scraped against the Praxian’s spike seal. It took very little encouragement before Prowl’s spike pressured for the first time, rupturing the seal as it did.

 

“Frag,” the Praxian rasped. 

 

His scent was changing almost imperceptibly at first. Instead of becoming less cloying, less intoxicating, it pulled Jazz deeper into madness, and he did not have the processor power to fight it. He dragged his glossa over the punctures he had left on Prowl’s energon line, sealing them. This was nowhere close to the end, but he paused, nonetheless. Paused and watched the Praxian as he stroked that pretty spike. Prowl dug his digits into the berth and tossed his helm back. Jazz smiled with satisfaction. Wanting a taste of more than just the Enforcer’s energon, the Amalgus crawled down  Prowl’s frame. When he reached Prowl’s spike, he took the tip into his mouth. 

 

“Holy!” Prowl exclaimed, and bucked.

 

Jazz easily swallowed the mech’s length, enjoying the weight and taste on his glossa. Listening to the Enforcer gasp and curse, the Amalgus sucked and kissed his spike, as he held his hips still. The pitch of Prowl’s exclaimation changed and he overloaded, with a startled intake. Swallowing, Jazz moved lower. Lubricants had gathered behind the seal  set just inside the Praxian’s valve  rim . There was more than one way to divest a mechanism of this seal, with varying degrees of pain. The mech’s lubricants naturally softened th e  poly-form.  Concerned more for pleasure then pain, Jazz ran his thumb digits over the engorged protoform that formed the lips of the Enforcer’s valve. Prowl vented harshly, his plating was hot to the touch. Again, the Amalgus waited, he allowed the mech an opportunity to call it off. Instead, the Praxian arched his hips up.

 

“Every bit o’ ya tastes delicious,” Jazz purred.

 

Taking the invitation for what it was, he ran his glossa over the seal, once and then twice. His oral lubricants worked to soften it further. Pinning Prowl again, to ensure he made not mistakes, Jazz sucked the sensor-laden rim in between firm laps against the seal, and he spread them apart as best he could with the seal still remaining. Beneath him, the Praxian was shaking, and it was not out of fear. Only when the seal gave easily under his glossa did Jazz tilted his helm and drag a single sharp fang down the thin poly-form, cutting through it smoothly. Prowl gasp as the seal gave weigh. Lubricant gushed from the slit. Again, the mech’s sent was changing, again it was no less enticing.  Gently, he pressed a digit through the slit, widening it, and penetrating Prowl for the first time. Slowly and carefully, Jazz prepared the former purus, because he could not claim that title now. From the way his frame bowed, and from the sounds of pleasure, the Amalgus thought Prowl was enjoying the change.

 

“You are going to spike me?” It was as much as a demand as it was a question, and it went straight to Jazz’s spike. 

 

“Soon,” he promised. “We could stop here… y’re free o’ those pesky contracts.”

 

“Finish what you started,” Prowl growled. 

 

He caught Jazz’s servo, surprising the Amalgus as he pushed Jazz’s digits deeper inside his valve. It was one of the hottest things Jazz had seen. More concerned with the Praxian’s safety than the mech was, apparently, he gradually wore the remnants of the seal away as he delved deeper into Prowl’s valve with each twist of his servo, curling his digits now and then. There was a sudden rush of lubricants as the Enforcer overloaded again. That had to be enough. Seizing both of the Praxian’s servos as he slipped back up the berth, Jazz watched Prowl’s faceplates as he slowly eased his spike into the mech’s slick channel.  He had been thorough in his preparations, and though there was still a bit of a stretch, Prowl’s valve both parted and clung to the Amalgus’ pressurized spike. Jazz did not stop until he was buried to the hilt, and as he waited for Prowl to become used to the new sensation, he bowed his helm to the Enforcer’s chassis, found the energon line on the other side of his chassis and bit down. 

 

Prowl’s whole frame arched as his legs came up to wrap around Jazz’s hips. His innermost energon tasted headier, overloads adding a sharp new flavour. Rocking against the Praxian, Jazz drained his innermost energon as he spiked him slow and deep. There was no drawing this out for joors, Jazz knew his overload was just on the horizon. He sucked that delicious energon down and luxuriated in the wet heat of the Enforcer’s frame. Operating on instinct, Prowl twisted and rocked under him, meeting his downward thrust, squeezing his hips tighter with his legs, and drawing him that much deeper. Driven to madness by the mech’s scent, and taste, the Amalgus pulled off Prowl’s chassis, cauterized the cut, and chased his release. Some instinctual programming took over and Jazz felt compelled to pull his arm aside, and his spark chamber spiraled open. Not so lost yet, though perilously close, he froze above Prowl,  their spark only separated by the seal over Prowl’s. He released the Praxian’s servos, and braced himself. Prowl threw his arms around Jazz’s shoulder and caught his mouth as he pulled the Amalgus down, and brought their sparks to meet.

 

Joors later, Jazz woke. He lounged on his side and admired his berthmate. Prowl recharged on his back, array and spark covered, but traces of his debauchery remained. Sated, in two ways, the Amalgus considered the dark-cycle’s events. Raised amongst Amalgii, Jazz and heard all the stories about purii’s affects on his kin, and he had always thought them something of a fairy tale, an excuse for at time inexcusable behaviour. Having experienced it now, the young mech had a bit more of an understanding how intoxicating, and processor melting the experience could be. At the same time, he did not really understand it at all. Prowl still smelled sweet and heady, and watching him, Jazz felt a stir,  a sense of possessiveness, and it confused him. 

 

He sat up in the berth, perplexed by these foreign feelings. When he looked down at Prowl again, the mech was awake and watching him back. Something compelled him to lay back down, to pull his berthmate against his frame. Prowl draped an arm over Jazz’s hips, and his optics dimmed again. His frame would replenish the innermost energon the Amalgus had drained, a bit every mega-cycle. When Jazz was hungry again, Prowl would be ready for him, but Jazz would not be here to claim him. With the light-cycle Doradus beckoned him home. But that was in the light-cycle, and that was still joors away.


	4. Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smaller ficlet today, since it's b-day, and time for some fun. Thanks for reading.

There were few mechanisms, outside of the Cons, that Jazz truly hated. It was unfortunate that the mech he probably hated the most was Optimus’ second. This was the mech who had ordered the retreat during the battle for Polihex, who had left the besieged Autobots and Polihexians to the Decepticons tender mercies, of course there had been no mercy to be had. Prowl of Praxus was an emotionless drone. If his tactical set up did not give him odds greater than 90% he turned tail, there was nothing Jazz hated more than a coward. The mech did not even fight in the battles, not for Polihex, not for Iacon. No, he stood back at a safe distance and directed it as you would a symphony, there really was nothing Jazz hated more than a coward.

 

Praxus fell without warning, with hardly a sound, ten thousand stellar-cycles into the war. The scale of the slaughter new and terrifying. Full of righteous anger the troops had demanded to march on Kaon, had demanded to even the score. Jazz, as enraged as he had been for the million dead, had not been on board, but he had never had the opportunity to lend a voice of calm. Prowl’s drone like voice instead lectured the masses for their undisciplined behaviour. This was his home state, and he did not shed a tear for them. It was difficult to imagine an Autobot more reviled than the Second-in-Command, but if the mech noticed, he did not seem to care.

 

There was something off about Prowl, something Jazz could not trust. He might have been a good tactician, and the Polihexian was willing to admit to that much, but there was something terribly off with him. When Prowl did not attend the memorial, Optimus Prime refused to divulge an opinion, he stamped out any rumbling outrage with uncharacteristic anger. What the SIC had done to earn this loyalty, Jazz could not guess. But even with the Prime’s unilateral orders to give Prowl amble space, the saboteur took to stalking him. It was not a hard thing to do. Prowl was either in his office, or in his housing on base. If he felt anything for Praxus, it did not show. Ratchet and Optimus were the only Bots to visit him, neither stayed for any length.

 

“He needs to feel something,” Ratchet grumbled under his vents as he left, unaware that Jazz was listening from the air duct above.

 

“In his own time,” Optimus replied. “Make sure he’s fuelling but give him space. He resents our intrusions.”

 

“Too fragging bad,” the medic harrumphed. “He’s not going to take care of himself, I’m telling you that. He’ll self-destruct before long.”

 

“I have faith,” the Prime replied. “Come on, old friend.”

 

Faith in what? Jazz wondered. It was no surprise that Ratchet was riding the Praxian’s aft. He was well known for his workaholic habits, well known for outmanoeuvring the CMO whenever Ratchet decided it was time for him to come in for a physical. For a mech that spent fourteen joors a mega-cycle on average in his office, he disappeared with surprising effectiveness when he had the right motivation. If Jazz had not hated the mech as much as he did, he would have been impressed. The duct was unfortunately as close as he could get. All air and heating ducts narrowed to small for even a Cassetticon once they entered the offices. It had been Red Alert’s doing, and the saboteur had supported him full out when the renovations were underway, but right now? Right now it was just annoying.

 

Prowl flew out of his office late in the mid-cycle, two orns after Praxus’ fall. At a careful distance, Jazz followed. He followed the Praxian to the air stripped, marvelling at the driving manoeuvres Prowl took, the recklessness he employed. It was unlike him, and the saboteur’s senses were heightened. Something had happened, or something was happening. If Prowl was a Decepticon plant, if his evac was coming for him, this was the wrong time of the mega-cycle for it. Autobots gave the speeding tactician a wide berth as he drove through the base, heedless of the posted speed limits and traffic loss. No MTO made a move to stop him. They looked, quite frankly stunned. There was a shuttle parked on the runway. Jazz frowned inwardly. No transports were scheduled this light-cycle, he knew that much. In the distance he watched a small mechanism being led down the ramp. Then he heard the horrible screams.

 

Before his optics, the Polihexian watched Prowl transform and run towards the screaming. The source of the sparkbreaking sounds broke from the Autobots leading him from the shuttle, and dove into Prowl’s arms. They fell to the ground, the tactician, and this small mech. Jazz walked closer, and as he did, saw the wildly waving doorwings on the smaller form’s back. A Praxian, this was a Praxian, and not just any, a youngling. Screams choking off now, the youngling wrapped his arms around Prowl’s neck and sobbed loudly. Prowl wrapped his own arms around the smaller Praxian and bowed his helm. Not an Autobot moved, they were all frozen, staring in disbelief, and maybe wonder as Prowl pulled the youngling against him and rocked. Not recognizing his most hated enemy at all, and in some disbelief himself, Jazz waved away the gawkers and lookieloos. It took some work to herd them all way, but he did, and when he finally did, the saboteur turned back around only to freeze at the sight of Prowl’s tear stained face as he nuzzled the strange youngling’s helm.

 

“My bitlet,” Prowl sobbed.

 

 


	5. Laundromat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why there would be a vat of glow in the dark slime backstage at a rock concert, but let's not think to deeply here.

Most messes could be cleaned in the washracks, without ever removing the plating. There were times, however when contaminates got beneath the armour requiring it to be removed, and washed separately. Few mechanisms had the facilities to handle this cleaning in their personal habsuites, Prowl certainly could not. He had decontaminated at the Enforcer Station, as best he could, but there was considerably more of that slime inside his armour, and it had oozed between various components of his protoform, and had dried. Though the luminescent gook was not toxic, it was still disgusting. It was the middle of the dark-cycle and Prowl had not recharged properly in mega-cycles. This was supposed to have been the first mega-cycle of his first holiday in vorns, instead he had been stuck playing sparkling sitter to a touring cyberpop star because of a series of posted threats from a stalker. At least it had not been a waste of time, because Maestro Folgore, the phenom from Polihex, had in fact had a stalker lying in wait.

 

Had the mech been simply imagined himself desperately in love, it would have been concerning enough, mechanisms had often done terribly things to other mechanisms they claimed to love. But Freeway did not claim to love Folgore, he claimed to loathe the mech. They had studied at the same conservatory, been rivals of sorts. Folgore had risen to stardom and wealth, something Freeway had craved like engex, but had never managed to achieve. Instead of accepting his talent was mediocre, he watched his classmates upward climbed and twisted it. To anyone had listened, he had accused the other Polihexian of stealing his accolades, of taking the fame that was meant to be his. After Freeway had broken into a habsuite he had thought belonged to his rival, the mech had been detained at a detention centre in Polihex, but only brieftly. He had escaped only a quartex ago.

 

It was fortunate Freeway had shared his plan with other patients, or Folgare’s security detail would not have received the warning otherwise. Prowl would not have found evidence that the mech had made his way to Praxus, and the Enforcer would not have been standing backstage, watching for him, had his evidence not led him to the coliseum. But it had, and he had been waiting, had caught sight of the fugitive, and had tackled him before Freeway could fire his blaster, dropping them both into the tank of goo. The only comfort Prowl took in any of this was that the suspect had taken the bulk of the sludge, and he would not have the opportunity to decontaminate until he was transferred to the detention centre from the holding cell at the precinct.

 

The first thing Prowl had done when he had arrived at the laundromat, the only one in the vicinity of the station that was opened at this joor, was set his armour in the washing machine before using the on site washracks to get the slag out of his protoform. His armour should have been clean by the time he had scrubbed himself raw, but it was still cycling, still cleaning when he left the showers, and the Enforcer had no choice to sit down, stripped to his protoform, and to wait. He waited a joor before concluding the machine was stuck on the wash cycle, and he could not get the door to release. There was only a service drone monitoring the laundromat so late, and it had not been programmed to troubleshoot. Prowl had no choice but to sit back down on the bench and to wait until a sapient employee to appear with the light-cycle. It was a lousy end to a long orn... but at least he had not been shot. The drone played a recorded greeting as the door’s chime announced a new arrival.

 

“Trouble, Enforcer Prowl?” An accented voice spoke. It was vaguely familiar. Prowl turned to face the newcomer, a Polihexian. He racked his processor. Could he have been a member of Folgare’s entourage. If he was, the Enforcer did not recognize him.

 

“Have we met?” He asked. It was not like him to forget a face, or a designation, but it had been a long vorn. No. It had been a long millenium.

 

“Sure,” the Polihexian said. His armour flared up up, and seemed to rotate. Rather than an unfamiliar monochrome Polihexian standing in front of him was the musician whose life he had saved.

 

“Maestro Folgare,” Prowl said.

 

“Jazz,” the maestro corrected. “Only way to keep my sanity is to keep my life, ‘n my tour separate.”

 

“That is... not unwise,” the Praxian replied.

 

“I heard ya got slimed savin’ my aft, so I came lookin’ for ya after the show,” Jazz explained. “Precinct said ya probably went here on yer way home... Glad I caught ya.”

 

“You would have missed me if this machine was operational,” Prowl replied. “I believe I will be here for the remainder of the dark-cycle.”

 

“Lemme see if I can help,” the Polihexian said. He knelt at the machine, helm cocked as he wriggle the dial, finally he twisted it to the left and the machine began to drain. A ping announced the drying cycle had begun.

 

“Thank you,” the Enforcer replied. “I was not looking forward to the wait.”

 

“Should be a bream, maybe two,” Jazz declared. “When it’s done, I was hopin’ ya’d let me take ya out for engex.”

 

“What for?” Prowl asked.

 

“What for?” The musician laughed. “Mech, ya saved my life. Best of all, the fragger’s gonna be locked up in Praxus so I can finally relax. It’d like to toast ya.”

 

“It was my job,” the Praxian said. “However, engex does sound nice.”

 

“Sweet!” Jazz cheered. “Maybe ya can tell me where I outta visit before I head home. Tours ain’t worth the trouble I only see the world through the windows of a transport.”


	6. Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be short. The HP books were not my jam so I'm not exactly fluent on the language of the world.

“I heard ya had a lil trouble,” the chuckle in the Polihexian’s voice was poorly disguised. Prowl turned to face him, to give him something of a glass lashing but Jazz’s servo curled over his shoulder, and he stole the wash clothe. The next nanoklik, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor began cleaning the hot pink splatter off the Praxian’s doorwings. “Lemme help ya, lover.”

 

“I wonder who taught the Twins that spell?” Prowl asked, a small hum in his voice. Jazz knew exactly how to touch his doorwings. It made it difficult to stay angry.

 

“No idea,” Jazz lied. “Have to say who ever it was was a clever mechanism. “I assume ya left them cleanin’ the classroom.”

 

“With a denta brush,” the Arithmancy professor confirmed. “I should send you over to help them.”

 

“But I wouldn’t be able to help ya with the residue,” the Polihexian argued as he discarded the cloth to knead Prowl’s doorwings. Some mega-cycle Prowl would learn to say no do this mech. This mega-cycle, he pushed back into those clever servos.”

 

“You are a terrible role model,” Prowl grumbled without heat, before he sighed with contentment. “I do not know how they sorted to Gryffindor. They have more than enough of you in them. I expected them to be Slytherins.”

 

“Not Ravenclaw?” Jazz asked.

 

“If the Sorting Hat had sorted them to Ravenclaw I would have petitioned Headmech Optimus to have it discharged from its service for senility,” the Praxian replied. “Those mechlings are not Ravenclaw.”

 

“No argument there,” the Defence against the Dark Arts professor agreed. He nuzzle the back of Prowl’s neck. “I was worried the hat was gonna try ‘n separate them. So as long as they’re together, I can live wit them being Gryffindor.”

 

“We should go to supper,” Prowl said, reaching to turn off the spray. The other mech’s servo reached up and caught his. While he stroke down the Praxian’s mid section with his servo.

 

“In a bream,” Jazz suggested, knowing exactly which cables to pluck to set the other’s frame alight.

 

They were late for supper, and not for the first time. Neither the Headmech, nor the other professors said anything. Most prefer not to acknowledge the bonding between the Polihexian and the Praxian. Not because they disapproved at all, but because it made them wonder what surfaces had been defiled by the young lovers. It was not a question any of them really wanted answers too. Which was for the best because quite frankly, no surface was safe, and no room in the entire school, except a few parts of the dormitories, had been spared. Jazz and Prowl had interfaced the first time on their own professor’s desk early in vorn six. Before they had graduated they that gone about making love in every glass, under the stands in the Quidditch field, every where. Now that they were professors, with creations of their own in attendances, the Polihexian was determined to revisit all of these spots.

 

Prowl looked across the room to where his creations were sitting with their housemates. Sideswipe’s arms were up in the air as he enthusiastically told some story. It was strange sitting so far away from them. But it did not matter what house they had sorted to, students fuelled together, as did the teachers, they did not intermix. Both groups needed space from each other. He had been worried about Sunstreaker, but as he watched his second creation jostling Sideswipe, and telling his own story, the Praxian felt the worst of his fear abate. If it was his worst fear that his creations have trouble making friends then it was a minor thing, really. At least when you consider the war that had nearly ripped the school apart while Prowl and Jazz had been attending.

 

“The school is a happier place now, compared to when you attended, isn’t it?” Optimus asked, as if he had read Prowl’s processor.

 

“Don’t know about that,” Jazz replied. “He don’t let me frag ‘m in the janitor’s closet anymore.”

 

There was dead silence, for just a nanoklik before the other teachers started choking on their energon. Prowl turned from his creations to scowl at his Conjunx Endura.

 

“Perhaps that is because letting you frag me in the janitor’s closet is how I came to emerge those two less than a vorn after we graduated,” Prowl replied. Optimus put his face his his servos. He would likely live to regret inviting these two to come teach at Hogwarts. No... he was definitely going to regret it.


	7. Famous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking from where Laundromat left off.

Folgare, or rather Jazz invited Prowl back to his hotel for that engex. His argument, though he had not really argued it, was that the oil bars still open this late were not going to have the crowd an Enforcer would want to mingle with, and quite frankly, the mech was right. A quiet drink in a quiet suite was vastly more appealing to Prowl, there was no question. He was not afraid of any improper behaviour, Prowl was a trained Enforcer, not a newly upgraded adult. If Jazz made that sort of proposition, the Praxian would be quite capable of leaving. If he even wanted to.

 

Certainly, his procreators would be scandalized, if they could have known their thoughts, but it had been a long time since Prowl had truly cared for their opinions. He did not hate his procreators, hatred was too strong a glyph, he felt something that more closely resembled indifference. They were not mechanisms he would choose to socialize with, and he only ever did for the seasonal festivals, where an appearance at the family gathering was an unflinching expectation. Still, the Praxian only even bothered to meet that expectation because those gatherings were the only time he saw his brother. Prowl had always been inclined to blame his own schedule for the fact that he rarely saw Barricade, but given that his older brother had declared himself booked solid, for the entire quartex Prowl had taken off, well... it hurt a little. Perhaps Barricade had finally absorbed their procreators’ latent displeasure in him, certainly he had absorbed their taste for excess. Still, a quartex after Barricade’s rebuff, the younger brother still felt hurt.

 

So perhaps that might explained why Prowl did not hesitate at Jazz’s offer. Even if it was just a vial of engex, nothing more or less, it was one he would not being drinking in his own empty habsuite, or sitting alone at a bar. It came as no surprise when the disguised musician led him to the guest only entrance of one of Praxus’ best hotels. Folgare performed with a troupe of musicians and dancers, but there was no question he was the one who drew the crowds to his shows. Prowl had watched the audience, as well as the performance from his perch backstage. They were clearly enraptured by him, and the Enforcer could find no cause to blame them. His manner of dance, the tempo of his songs were not at all what Prowl had been accustomed to, his procreators would have described it as vulgar, but they would have been wrong.

 

“When they told me he broke out, I was wonderin’ what it was gonna take to be done wit’m,” Jazz said as he let Prowl into his room, high up in the hotel’s tower. “Mech’s been a pain in my aft since the conservatory.”

 

“Does he know about your... second identity?” Prowl asked.

 

“Nah,” Jazz said. “My family ain’t made for the limelight. I enrolled under Folgare, kept Jazz for myself ‘n my family. Lesson my origin taught me. Ya don’t go into the conservatory expectin’ to hit the big time, but its what ya work for. Ya take lousy gigs, ya perform where’er ya can to get your designation out there, and ya work. Freeway didn’t think he needed to work. He thought he was perfect, the most talented singer the conservatory ever saw. We all thought he was full of slag. Still, we all hung out, bunch of o’ us all in the same vorn o’ school. Towards the end he ‘n me auditioned for the same troupe, I got in, he didn’t. He stopped pretendin’ he wasn’t a conceited cogsucker, ‘n the group sorta pushed ‘m out. I didn’t ask’em too. But between me ‘n him, I guess ‘m better company.”

 

“Based on my interactions with him, I do not disagree,” the Enforcer replied, taking the engex he was offered. “I am not of the belief that self-possessed would-be murders make good companions.”

 

“Ya don’t look like ya got banged up in the fall,” the Polihexian noted. “I was worried.”

 

“I used him to break my fall,” Prowl shrugged his doorwings lightly. “I had a clear shot, but I was not confident such a thing would not be heard over the music, in which case there could have been a stampede. Beyond that, a non-lethal take down is always preferable.”

 

“I’ll toast to that,” Jazz declared.

 

Prowl woke slowly, at first, but then jerked up with a start. This was not his berth, not his berthroom, not his habsuite. He remembered sitting in the laundromat for joors, remembered Folgare aka Jazz coming to his rescue, and he remembered coming back here... here to the hotel. They had only had a single vial of engex each, Prowl had not even deactivated his fuel moderation chip, but the engex had been the first fuel he had had in joors and it had... made him drowsy. When he had finished the engex, the Praxian remembered having planned to make his exit, but Jazz had been telling some story and... Primus he had fallen into recharge.

 

He had fallen into recharge on the couch while Jazz had been speaking. It was mortifying. The mech had even put him to berth, had tucked the blankets around him, and left him to rest. Primus it was absolutely mortifying. Not just falling into recharge, but not waking up when he was lifted and moved... based on their armour styles, and not just his own greater height, Prowl thought he must have weighed considerably more than the musician, but he had managed to carry him to the berthroom... unless he had asked for help from someone in his troupe. That thought might even have been worse. The Praxian climbed out of his borrowed berth, and straightened the blankets. First he had dropped off to recharge while the mech had been speaking, then he had stolen his berth. Prowl half hoped Jazz was recharging, somewhere, anywhere else, so he could make a quiet exit, but when he stepped from the berthroom, the Polihexian was awake, sitting on the very couch Prowl had fallen into recharge on, with a tray of fuel.

 

“I am very sorry,” the Enforcer said, uncharacteristically quickly.

 

“Don’t be,” Jazz replied. “Sit, fuel. When was the last time ya ‘charged? Ya went down deep.”

 

“Four stellar-cycles,” Prowl admitted, The musician shook his helm.

 

“Got worse habits than me,” he said, offering Prowl a cube. “’M impressed. Come on, fuel wit me.”

 

“Thank you,” the Praxian replied. “I was not expecting to work last dark-cycle. But I was available.”

 

“Well, thanks for comin’ in,” Jazz said. “Do ya need to call anyone?”

 

“I live alone,” Prowl explained. “I begin a quartex of holiday this mega-cycle. No one will be alarmed.”

 

“If ‘m keepin’ ya from a transport,” the Polihexian said.

 

“No,” the Enforcer replied. “I am not travelling, I am simply not working. I enter a new position next quartex and my predecessor wishes to finish his term without me looming in the background. Time off seemed the most reasonable solution. Beyond that, I have not taken considerable time off in vorns.”

 

“Big promotion?” Jazz asked.

 

“Praefectus Vigilum,” Prowl explained. Jazz froze.

 

“Praefectus,” the musician echoed and he shook his helm. “They send the new chief Enforcer to guard my aft... that’s ridiculous.”

 

“You are the Lord’s youngest’s favourite musician,” the Praxian replied. “I was available.”

 

“Congratulations on the promotion,” Jazz said. “Either ‘m way off guessin’ yer age or yer fraggin’ young for it.”

 

“I am young,” Prowl confessed. “I will be the youngest ever to serve the post when I begin my term.”

 

“And ya ain’t celebratin’?” the Polihexian asked. “Not gonna do nothin’ special for it?”

 

“Travelling alone does not appeal,” the Enforcer said.

 

“’M still in Praxus for a while,” Jazz said. “I was plannin’ on seein’ some o’ the sights, between shows. Would ya like to be my guide.”

 

“I would,” Prowl replied, and it was not a lie.

 

They visited the gardens first, as one always did. Prowl bypassed the largest of them, and led Jazz to his favourite garden, one that rarely had more than a couple of mechanisms in it at any one time, and never tourists. Unlike the most famous of the Helix Gardens, the crystals in Prima’s alcove were small, suspended in the methane cloud in a pattern that mirrored the stars, and when they sang, it was an ethereal sound. That dark-cycle, Jazz as Folgare, performed again. From the back stage, Prowl listened, falling under the Polihexian’s spell, as sure as the audience did. It was different, listening to it with his full attention. The mech was talented. His troupe were not actually international celebrities, though their star was rising, Prowl thought that was in no small part due to Jazz.

 

“You are beautiful,” he said when Jazz found him back stage. “I mean... you performed beautifully.”

 

“Thank ya,” Jazz replied. “There was someone worth impressin’ in the audience.”

 

“The Lord is attending?” Prowl asked.

 

“No,” the Polihexian chortled. He leaned in, and purred against Prowl’s audials, sending a shiver of awareness down his frame. “You.”


	8. Swap Superpowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where I was going with this. I just know I'm done looking at it.

“Stop doing that,” Prowl ordered the corner of the medbay where he had taken up residence after the debacle with Wheeljack.

“What?” Jazz asked, sighing with more than a little frustration. It was strange, looking at himself, hearing himself speak, and replying in another’s voice. “I ain’t said a thing in a joor.

“That sound,” the Praxian replied. Praxian, but he was wearing Jazz’s armour, Jazz’s face. How in the frag had Jackie managed this?

“Those are my vents, mech,” the saboteur sighed. “Or rather, yours. Can’t turn’em off.”

“Can you ventilate quieter?” Prowl asked. He brought his/Jazz’s servos up to cover the Polihexian’s audial horns, only to wince again.

“Ya just gotta filter it… mech,” Jazz said, and he gestured wildly at his borrowed helm. He could almost feel his spark beat in his helm. Never in all his vorns had the Polihexian had a helmache this bad. It did not help his his patience, or his mood. Who would have imagined Prowl sulking? Seriously? “Don’t know what yer flippin’ out over. I don’t know how ya think wit this.”

“I do not stop,” the tactician replied, dropping his servos. He looked tired and defeated. Come to think of it, Jazz could not picture that expression on Prowl’s faceplates. In the worst moments, he was always in control.

“Don’t stop?” He asked.

“Thinking,” Prowl replied. “Your processor is so... quiet.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Jazz said.

“I don’t know how you recharge with all this noise,” the Praxian grumbled.

“Filter it,” the saboteur explained, again. “Call it selective hearing. Can ya tell me how to walk wit these without falling backwards?”

“It is intuitive,” Prowl said. “They are a counter-balance, to a point. Keep them back as you lean forward, pull them forward when you lean back.”

“What’s the... fuzz... I’m... seein’?” Jazz asked.

“Doorwings have sensors on both sides,” the Praxian explaiend. “You are seeing the shape of the world, with something other than visual sensors. Do not play with the settings. It will hurt.”

Jazz pushed himself away from the medberth, and walked, on shaky peds, over to the corner where Prowl had curled up into a tight ball. He offered a servo to the normally stoic Praxian. Prowl sighed, audibly, and took the proffered servo. With Jazz’s help, he stood, jaw tensing. It was strange seeing these expressions on his own face, recognizing they were not his own, and yet they did not seem like they should have been Prowl’s. In the back of his borrowed processor, something spoke without speaking, flooding his HUD with gibberish. Out of the overwhelming surge of data, the Polihexian had a single thought.

  


“Yer office,” he said. “It’s sound proof. We go there, ‘n hide until Wheeljack figures out how to put our sparks back in our proper frames.”

“My office,” Prowl echoed. “Yes, that is an excellent plan.”

“Thanks,” Jazz replied. “I think ya thought o’ it.”

“No,” the Praxian said. “The ATS is not that independent. It does however take as much instruction from your subconscious as conscious.”

“It’s fraggin’ intrusive,” the saboteur said.

“Pick a problem, and run it through system,” Prowl advised. “Keeping the battle computer busy is key to keep it from finding a loop.”

That must have been what Prowl had meant when he said he never stopped thinking. It sounded unbearable to Jazz, in fact it really was unbearable. Jazz did as he was told, and will the pesky tactical system to focus on a benign interpersonal issue in his Ops, and focused on walking. For his part, Prowl walked almost as gingerly. Fair enough, he was used to have pseudo optics/weights on his back, he must have felt off balance. Still, it made the saboteur feel a little better for his ungainliness. He was used to being naturally graceful, stumbling around like a sparkling just finding his peds was a bit of an insult to his sensibilities.

Mirage and Cliffjumper had a romantic attraction.

Jazz stumbled to a stop. He did not pay attention to the percentage of likelihood the ATS gave its conclusion, it was so incomprehensible that he could not even move. In fact, the Polihexian could not even think. Servos pulled him through a door, but he was not aware of it. His borrowed processor filled with static as the ATS conclusion echoed over and over. It was laughable, it was ludicrous, it was... right? There was a sharp pain in Jazz’s overheated helm, and he lurched forward as his limbs refused to obey. Though he tried to speak, to call for help, his vocalizer would not work. Servos guided him down, down onto the ground, and he knew nothing.

“Are you online?” Prowl asked. And it was that question that pulled Jazz from the fog. Frag, everything hurt.”

“Ya,” he replied. “That’s a crash.”

“Yes,” the Praxian replied. “It sounded worse from the outside than I had imagined.”

“It sucks slag,” Jazz said. “Frag. Why does every strut in my... in yer frame hurt?”

“I, you locked up,” Prowl explained. “It is part of a crash. The pain is temporary.”

“Do ya always have a helm ache?” The Polihexian asked.

“No,” the tactician replied. “It is generally a sign of over exertion, and a precursor to a crash. Control your emotions.”

“Ya make it sound like it’s easy,” Jazz grumbled.

“Like filtering audial stimuli?” Prowl asked.

“Sorry,” the saboteur said. “I was short wit ya. It ain’t easy if ya don’t go all ya life doin’ it.”

“Apology accepted,” the Praxian replied. "I apologize for suggesting you should not ventilate."

 


	9. Summer Camp

It was the second orn of camp and Prowl was fairly convinced that he would die of boredom before the quartex was out. His procreators were convinced he would love the outdoors, and the other younglings, if he would just give it all a chance. They had said as much the last time the young Praxian had called home to try and convince them to just let him return to Praxus early. The math and science camp he had attended the previous stellar-cycle had been much more to his tastes, and that had apparently been a problem, though he could not reason why. But then, he confounded his procreators, both were social sparks, and they loved to throw parties for even the most minor reason, even for no reason at all. Meanwhile, their creation hated these gatherings, and he loathed this camp. He wanted nothing more than to find a quiet corner to curl up in and to read, Prowl might as well do something he was good at.

 

He was no good at camping, no good at hiking. The counsellors and other campers were endlessly calling for him to catch up, to stop lagging behind whenever he stopped to looking up some interesting fauna. What was the point, Prowl wondered, in the outdoors if you could not even take the time to look at any of it. No, this hike, and every other hike he had been dragged out on was merely a means to an end. Their destination was a lake in the mountains above the camp. There was a lake just off the camp, the Praxian wondered what was so special about this lake that they had to hike a mountain to get to it? What, he wondered, was the point of anything. Prowl had stopped trying to look at the crystals growing around the bases of the tin-firs, stopped looking at anything but the backs of his fellow campers. Though he was making a point to keep pace with the pack a head, Prowl kept several steps behind them.

 

During the campfire the dark-cycle before he had suffered a crash. It had been nothing serious, they never were, but his cabinmates had not stopped gawking at him since, whispering about the freak, behind his back. Idiots, you could not whisper at a Praxian’s back and not be heard. It was just like school, but his classmates back home were Praxian, at least they tried to be subtle... Even more than boredom, Prowl loathed being the butt of other mechanisms jokes, hated the disdain, and the pity he received for that stupid glitch.

 

Finally, they reached the lake, and with great whoops, his fellow campers jumped in under their counsellors’ watchful optics. It looked no different than the lake two joors down the mountain. It was a lake, glacier fed, there was no doubt in Prowl’s processor that it would be unpleasantly cold. He turned his back from the lake and looked about the beach until he found a crystal large enough to sit on. There was an outcrop of them, polished smooth by the lake and time, just big enough to make a comfortable perch for him. Prowl pulled a datapad from his subspace, and settled in. Why they could not have just left him down in the camp, the Praxian could not understand. He could not swim, and the rough and tumble games his campmates engaged in on the shore were not his thing. Or rather, being shoved into the energon under the guise of a game was not to his taste. Stubbornly ignoring the calls from the counsellors to join the fun, Prowl stubbornly read. No more than a bream or two after they had arrived at the lake, a shadow fell over his datapad, and the sour camper looked up.

 

“Prowl, right?” The youngling was Polihexian. His voice was accented, though Prowl’s would be to this mechling’s audials. He was smiling, and Prowl was instantly suspicious. “’M Jazz.”

 

“I am aware,” Prowl replied, though he did not want to put down the datapad, his procreators had drilled etiquette into his struts, and he powered down the datapad and set it back in his subspace. There was only room enough for him on the crystal, with any luck the Polihexian would get bored of him quickly. “You are in the cabin next to mine.”

 

“Ya...” Jazz said. “Are ya... feelin’ okay? I mean I saw ya crash, didn’t expect ya on the hike this ‘cycle.”

 

“I am fine,” the Praxian replied, wary of the concern that could so easily be faked.

 

“It sounded like it hurt,” the other camper said.

 

“It did, but it fades,” Prowl explained, already tired of the path the conversation was on. “You should be with the others.”

 

“Why aren’t ya?” Jazz asked.

 

“I cannot swim,” the sour camper replied.

 

“Well that’s easy to fix!” The Polihexian said. “Come on, I can teach ya.”

 

“I...” Prowl murmured. What was he supposed to say to that? The lake was almost certainly freezing, why did he need to swim anyways? His procreators had never bothered to teach him, never taken him to any lakes or rivers, or even pools. They were flying to the Rust Sea this cycle to spend the remainder of the quartex at the beach there. That was the reason Prowl was at this accursed camp, in far away Simfur, because his procreators wanted a vacation away from him.

 

“Come on, it’s easy,” Jazz exclaimed, and he grabbed Prowl’s servo. “Yer gonna have no trouble floating, not with those wings!”

 

Prowl did not know what possessed him, but he let Jazz, a mechling he had not exchanged a single glyph with in the last two orns, lead him to the shore, well away from their fellow campers, but still in sight of the counsellors. Maybe he would drowned... then he could haunt his procreators for sending him to this stupid place. The lake was cold, it was very cold. As he put stepped into the energon, Jazz still leading him by the servo, he wondered why anyone actually chose to do this? Was freezing a popular recreational sport? His companion did not seem to mind. And maybe because he was so unaffected, Prowl refused to balked. They stopped with the energon just at their waists, though it was higher on Jazz, who stood a full helm shorter. To the Praxian’s surprise his frame was getting used to the cold... it was not unbearable standing in it, though he would not have called it fun.

 

“My origin always tells me not to go deeper than I can stand,” the Polihexian said. “This is better for now... Here, I’ll help ya. Ya just wanna lie on yer back. It’s easy.”

 

“Fine,” Prowl replied, and he let the shorter mechling help him back into the energon. The second the freezing energon touched his doorwings, he recoiled. “Gah. That is awful.”

 

“It ain’t that bad,” Jazz chuckled. “Ya sensors get used to it, just try again.”

 

Resisting the urge to scowl, Prowl led Jazz guide him back down to the energon. As his doorwings submerged, he tensed. He should have sunk, at least he thought he should have, but the Polihexian supported him, as he fussed over the dour mechling to “loosen up”. Prowl relaxed, eventually, and Jazz pulled his servo from under the Praxian’s back, and he... floated. Alright... This was fine. Still a little wary, Prowl did not really move, but he did not need to Jazz, floated next to him, though on his chassis, cheering Prowl on. It was hardly an impressive feat but Prowl smiled anyways.

 

“This is not terrible,” he said. “I suppose if I fall off the boat next mega-cycle I might actually survive,”

 

“There’s yer optimism!” Jazz laughed. “Did you want to...”

 

Before the Polihexian could complete his sentence, a trio of campers, the mechlings from Prowl’s own cabin, raced passed, splashing the pair as they went by with unmistakable intent. Energon got into his vents, and the shy mechling sputtered as he twisted up in the energon. They had floated deeper than they had started, but Prowl had no trouble finding his peds, especially with Jazz clinging tightly to his arm. Prowl shook his helm, and cleared his vents.

 

“Fraggin’ afts,” the Polihexian cursed. “Ya good?”

 

“I am fine,” Prowl replied. “Pay them no mind.”

 

“Fraggers are comin’ back,” Jazz growled. “I’ll show’em...”

 

“Wait,” the Praxian pulled his doorwings forwards, and waited. Half submerged in the lake, his sensor feedback was distorted, but he could see clear enough when they got into range. He snapped his doorwings back, and splashed his tormentor with a great clap of energon.”

 

“Gah!” The mechlings exclaimed, and they made a retreat. Moving on to easier prey.

 

“Nice!” The smaller mechling cheered.

 

That was the last time those particular mechlings, or anyone else tried to come over and harass the new friends. They spent the rest of the time at the lake, floating together, and talking. Prowl preferred to listen, and the wild stories Jazz told of his adventures all over Cybertron were engaging. He hesitated to talk himself, expecting full well for the Polihexian to tease him, or to fall asleep. But when he spoke about Praxus, his home, his family, Jazz listened. It was nice. It was really very nice for someone his own age to actually listen to what he said. When the counsellors called for the campers to return to the shore, Prowl walked out of the lake, Jazz still close to his side. And when they began the trek back to camp, the Praxian hung back again, but to his surprise, the smaller mechling did not return to his own cabinmates, he stayed with Prowl. This time, when he saw a particularly unique crystal outcrop, the quieter camper pointed it out to his new friend.

 

“That’s neat!” Jazz said, and he stopped to look at it a little closer. “Ain’t seen one wit all these... faces.”

 

“Facets,” Prowl corrected. “We should join the others... They will complain soon.”

 

“S’okay,” the Polihexian said. “We can catch up.”


	10. Secret Agent

The Enforcer’s habsuite was quiet. There was no reason for it not to be, Prowl lived alone after all, but he was disappointed all the same. How long had it been since Jazz had dropped in? A stellar-cycle was hardly a considerable length in time, considering the average life expectancy of Cybertronians. Still, the Praxian had become increasingly anxious over the last quartex. Praxus was an island of neutrality on a planet increasingly swept into chaos and war, and Jazz was somewhere in the middle of it. Prowl had no way to know where the Polihexian might be, and no right to know either. They were... were they friends? He liked to think so, but they had fallen into berth almost immediately after they had met, something that should have bothered the Enforcer more than it did. Apart from the intelligence the Polihexian brought him, Prowl knew next to nothing about him. Jazz had appeared in his office, with information on a Decepticon gang making inroads in the red light district in the Praxian capital. Of course, Prowl had taken the information with a healthy dose of cynicism, but the tip had been legitimate and the raid on, and the arrest of the mechanisms involved, and all the publicity thereon had led to the quiet Praxian’s promotion to Vigilum Secondus. When the spy had come again, Prowl had thanked him, and had interrogated him regarding his interest in Praxus, somehow they had ended up in the berth.

 

Since then, Jazz had come back, again and again, always with intelligence of some interest to Prowl. Sometimes the intelligence counted against the Autobots, mostly it counted against the Decepticons. But always it made Prowl wonder whose game the Polihexian was playing, and what endgame the mech might have in processor, and what exactly Jazz gained from these exchanges. The Enforcer very much doubted the spy had only interface on his processor. Certainly, a mech with Jazz’s charm did not need to come all the way to Praxus for an interface, and certainly he could have found a more skilful partner in just about any corner of the planet.

 

“Shanix for your thoughts?” Jazz asked from the entry of Prowl’s berthroom.

 

“Jazz!” Prowl gasped the designation. The Polihexian had figured out his blindspot. Rather than approach a Praxian from behind, if you wanted to go unnoticed, your best chance was from the side.

 

“Ya a’ight?” The spy asked, stepping into the open of Prowl’s livingroom. “Ya look a little lost.”

 

“I was wondering what state you might be in,” the Praxian replied honestly, he could not think of a convincing lie. “I see you are in one piece.”

 

“I try,” Jazz said. “Missed ya.”

 

“I... missed you as well,” Prowl admitted. “I wondered if you might have died. The news from beyond Praxus has been grim.”

 

“Media’s like that,” the Polihexian replied. “It’s getting worse. HQ’s acceptin’ this ain’t gonna be cleaned up quick. That’s what ‘m here for.”

 

“Oh?” the Enforcer asked. The Decepticons had made more than one attempt to seize influence in peaceful Praxus, the Autobots had as well. Praxus held firm to its tradition of Neutrality. His city-state had no true military force, there was no logic in allying themselves to either side in this conflict.

 

“’Cons put a hit on ya,” Jazz said, softly. He crossed the remaining distance and cupped Prowl’s face in his servos.

 

“Oh,” Prowl murmured. He was not surprised. The media in Praxus had sung his praises regarding the raids, and arrests and operations that had kept the Decepticons from operating on any effective level in Praxus. It was natural that Megatron and his ilk would decide Prowl to be an unacceptable nuisance.

 

“Just oh?” The spy asked, and he stroked his thumb digits along Prowl’s face.

 

“I am only surprised it has taken this long,” the Praxian said.

 

“It’s time to think o’ yerself,” Jazz replied, and he lightly kissed Prowl’s lipplates. “Ya gotta step down.”

 

“I will not abandon my service,” Prowl said, covering Jazz’s servos with his. “I will arrange more patrols, and watch my back. The future of Praxus matters more to me than my own life.”

 

“Oh, Prowl,” the Polihexian crooned.

 

He kissed Prowl, firmly and heatedly, and the Enforcer let himself be swept up. There was a pinch on his neck, and Prowl jerked himself back. His legs became weak, and he started to fall. Jazz caught him, cradled him. All the Praxian could do was look up at him with bewildered betrayal. The expression on the other mech’s face was no have malice, and it only made the betrayal more confusing. His processor was slowing, his vision blurred at the edges. Prowl willed his frame to move, but all he managed to do was drag his shaking servo up the spy’s chassis. Jazz caught his servo and pulled it to his lips, and kissed it gently. Though he fought the poison, the Enforcer’s frame went limp, and numb, and the last thing he felt was Jazz’s lips on his chevron.

 

“Ain’t gonna let anyone touch ya,” Jazz promised, and the world went quiet and black.


	11. Mermaid

He drifted. How many joors ago had it been since the ship had sunk? Prowl had no idea, his chronometer had malfunctioned when he had hit the sea. There had been cries of pain and fear around him, early in the dark-cycle, Prowl had been too dazed to answer, but now the Mithril Sea had gone silent. Above him, the three moons of Cybertron hung high in the sky. Considering the carnage of joors ago, the sea was quiet and still, and cold. It was so brutally cold, but Prowl’s plating had stopped clattering. Every last bit of his strength had been expended clinging on this scrap of metal, but even that strength was fading. His servos and arms had gone numb, and the Praxian no longer had the strength to lift his helm. In the distance, he heard a glyphless hum, and he wondered if this was a sign his processor was failing now too. Slowly, he slipped from the wreckage that had supported him for the last joors, and Prowl resigned himself to the end.

 

The sea swallowed him, and flooded his vented, and the sudden pain lit an energy in Prowl’s frame, and he shot pack up to the surface of the sea. Coughing to clear his vents, and treading energon. Looking around, the navigator searched for the wreckage that had kept him afloat for joors, but could not find it. Venting heavily, Prowl felt the energy bleed from his frame again. But he was as stubborn as his comrades had always grumbled at his back, and he forced his arms and legs to move, forced them to keep treading energon. All the stubbornness in Cybertron could not sustain him forever, and the Praxian found it increasingly difficult to keep his helm above the rolling sea. That strange hum had returned again, and Prowl thought of the stories his originator had told him as once more his helm slipped under the surface.

 

Something forced him up, and Prowl’s mouth fell open as he sucked in a quick breath of air. He was so tired and cold, but the fight had not completely left his frame so when an arm slipped around him, the navigator thrashed. But the arm pulled tight under his bumper, and pulled him tight to a warm chassis. That glyphless hum sang against his audial and Prowl went limp. Whoever, whatever held him pulled him back, and held him tight as he swam. There should have been legs kicking under him, but though he felt a brush of plating against the underside of his legs from time to time, but it was not legs, and he was reminded again of the stories him originator had told him, of creatures that lived beneath the seas, and he drifted.

 

Prowl onlined, warm and dry, some unknown length of time later. He looked up at the ceiling and saw clusters of glittering crystals dotting the slopping roof of the cave. They were the only source of light in the dark space. The sounds of waves splashing against the rocks echoed softly around him, and it lulled him down into a drowsy state. To say the Praxian was confused was an understatement to no small degree. Confused, but he could not yet focused his thoughts on the strange circumstances he had found himself. After so many joors cold, hurt and afraid, Prowl was swaddled in blanket, and free from pain. How it had come to pass, and why, the navigator had no answers. Warm, and safe, he felt himself drifting again. There was a soft clap as something heavy and wet pulled up onto the rocks.

 

Too tired to do more, Prowl turned his helm and listened as something, someone approached. The crystals on the ceiling could do nothing more than cast a warm glow on his benefactor. But while he could not make out the finer details of the mechanisms form. His faceplates were lit up by the glow of a white/blue visor. He was beautiful. A warm servo slid under his neck, and supported his helm as a flask was pressed against his mouth, and energon slowly poured down his throat. The Praxian swallowed out of reflex, and as the fuel hit his tank, he warmed that much more from within. He had not realized how famished he had been until his tank was full, and he did not catch the sigh until it escaped his vents. His rescuer chuckled and lowered his helm back to the nest.

 

“’Charge a lil longer,” a rich voice crooned in accented Neo Cybex, surprising the navigator. Thought he had questions, many questions, Prowl was too tired to to give them voice. The mech, or whatever he was, sang, and though the Praxian did not understand the glyphs but that did not matter, he let them carry him off to recharge in his saviour’s nest.

 

“What are you called?” Prowl asked when he woke again to find his benefactor sitting at the edge of the nest.

 

“Jazz,” his rescuer replied. “How ‘boutcha?”

 

“Prowl,” he said. “Thank you for saving me.”

 

“Woulda been a waste to let ya drown,” Jazz replied. “’M gonna help ya sit up. See how the zinkelp worked.”

 

“Zinkelp?” Prowl asked.

 

“Naturally occurring repair nanaites,” the mech explained, and he did as he said he would.

 

The blankets fell off Prowl’s back, and he stretched his doorwings out wide. He looked down, and saw the strips of gold and turquoise that wrapped his chassis, and legs. Considering how many strips of the zinkelp the mech had used, Prowl had been more banged up than he had realized. It was no wonder that he had been unable to move off the wreckage, unable to answer the cries of his surviving comrades. Jazz unwrapped the slimey floramech from his plating, and hummed with approval at what he saw. That hum sent a funny feeling into his tank. When he was free of the zinkelp, Prowl looked down at his legs, and touched a servo to his chassis and mid section. His plating was rough under this touch, and he could feel healing craters, and cracks. They would have been graved injuries, but they were well on their way to healed.

 

“Lookin’ good,” Jazz declared. “But I think ya need to be wrapped up a lil while longer.”

 

He stood, and Prowl could not help but be confused. There was no doubt in his processor that the mech had not been in the possession of legs when he had pulled him through the sea. As Jazz walked around the corner, Prowl listened for the ped steps to stop. Through the cave, he heard a transformation sequence, and a quiet splash. Jazz could have been an Aquaformer, or a Predacon, or he could have been one of those creatures the Praxian’s originator had so often told him about. Except the finmech from Camshaft’s stories were not find benefactors. They were beautiful beings who seduced unexpecting mechanisms, stole their sparks, and turned them into their slaves. In none of the stories Prowl had been told in his sparklinghood had finmech come to the aid of sailors, no they were none for causing the wrecks and dragging the unlucky sailors to their doom.

 

His frame was starting to ache, whatever nanites the zinkelp was imbued with had some analgesic properties. And so though he was curious about the cave he was hold up in, Prowl did not try to rise. Instead he stayed in the nest, and waited. It was not so long before Jazz returned. A soft splash, and a transformation sequence heralded his arrival. The mech came around the corner, frame dry save for his arms which help the dripping wet zinkelp. Prowl was intrigued by this observation, wanted quite fanatically to learn more. Mostly, he wanted to see Jazz as he really was.

 

“This is gonna feel funny,” the creature warned.

 

It did feel strange. As Jazz wrapped the slippery floramesh around Prowl’s chassis, it stuck to his plating, and it was distinctly cold. Despite the unpleasant sensation, he did not flinch or squirm, the Praxian had better discipline than that. Once more of his plating was wrapped in the zinkelp than not, Jazz brought the many blankets back up around Prowl. Though he wanted his arms free, the creature shook his helm, and swaddled him, and lowered him back down into the nest. As soon as his helm had hit the soft surface, the navigator’s processor slowed, and he felt his recharge protocols creeping up to the forefront of his HUD. Prowl cleared his optics, and resisted the urge to rest.

 

“How did you find me?” He asked.

 

“Heard ‘bout the sinkin’,” Jazz explained. “Found ya off on yer own, and took ya home.”

 

“Why?” Prowl asked. “Why are you sheltering me?”

 

“It woulda been a waste to let ya drown,” the creature said again. “When ya strong enough to travel, I’ll take ya down the coast, ‘n ya can find other survivors.”

 

“Others survived?” The Praxian asked, surprised. He remembered floating alone, after the cries had stopped.

 

“Ya drifted off in a different direction,” Jazz explained. “They got picked up by ships long before I found ya. ‘M sure some drowned, but not all, not ya.”

 

“You... live alone?” Prowl asked. So far, he had not heard so much as a ped step he could not associate with this mech.

 

“This is more o’ a hidin’ place,” the creature explained. “My kin live nearby.”

 

“What are you then?” The navigator asked.

 

“Got no designation in yer language,” Jazz said. “But ya can call me a mermech, or a finmech. Works about the same.”

 

“I do not know why you helped me,” Prowl said, thinking again of his originator’s stories. “I do not know what to give you in return.”

 

“Don’t worry bout that,” the mermech said, and he settled into the nest and Prowl’s side, and sang. The navigator drifted off into recharge again, still wondering what Jazz hoped to gain from saving his life if he did not want him for a finmate.

 

This went on for what felt like an orn but could have been longer. Whenever Prowl was awake, Jazz fuelled him, changed his zinkelp bandages, and buddled him up to recharge again. He spent so much time recharge, the Praxian was surprised his frame had not seized up, but whenever he was free to move, his arms, legs and doorwings moved find. Of course, Prowl was used enough to a sedentary life, most of his time was spent working behind a desk. When working he often delayed fuelling or forgot all together, and he certainly worked through the dark-cycle if he had a particularly troubling case, Prowl could not think of the last time he had spent so must time at rest.

 

Finally, Jazz removed the bandages and declared him healed. Prowl touched the plating of his chassis and midsection. The plating was scarred, but within a quartex it would regenerate complete, and when he was back in civilization, it would be easy enough to replace the paint nanites destroyed by the original damage. He felt... oddly melancholy. Of course he had no desire to be a finmate, to be forced to beg for crystals to keep his mate happy, but he thought he would miss this mech, and his songs. Jazz had kind and gentle with him, without demanding anything of him in return, and he did not remember the last time someone had done something for him, without wanting a reward, other than his procreators. But as Jazz helped him stand, and led him from the nest, he still asked for nothing.

 

They reached the cave’s open, where roughly carved steps led down to the sea. Jazz did not take the steps, he dove, and while still in the air, his legs transformers into a long, and magnificent tail, and he cut into the water with only a soft splash. Nanokliks later Jazz returned to the surface. Not just the mech’s legs hadn changed. His olfactory ridge had flattened, and his vents flared out from his neck. He reached out his servos to Prowl. Memories of that cold and lonely dark-cycle loomed, but the Praxian walked those rough steps, to the mermech’s servos and jumped into the sea. It was just as cold as he hand remembered, but Jazz pulled him close to his frame, and it was not so unbearable.

 

“Just float, Prowler,” Jazz ordered. “I’ll take care o’ the rest.”

 

Like that first dark-cycle, the mermech looped an arm under his chassis, and held him to his side, as he powered through the waves, with powerful but easy strokes of his long tail. Prowl kept his optics offline, and his secondary vents closed. It did not take long, but of course it should not have. A dry cave could not exist in the middle of the sea. And so Prowl soon found himself waist deep in the see, the shores and a coastal village looming up ahead. He did not want to go, and was that not ridiculous. He did not wish to return to the merchant sailor business and the life he had been living, but of course he had to return. There was no other life for him.

 

“Are you sure there is nothing I can give you in thanks?” Prowl asked as he turned his back to the shore

and faced his rescuer for the final time.”

 

“Maybe a kiss?” The mermech asked. The navigator felt warmth curl in his tank as he stepped in close to Jazz, took his face his his servos, and kissed him without restraint. Jazz wrapped his arms around Prowl’s waist and held him to him as they embraced at the edge of the sea.

 

“If I come back to this beach, will I ever find you?” The navigator asked when they seaparated.

 

“Comeback to these shores ‘n ya’ll find me every time,” Jazz promised.


	12. Royal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is set in a Cloak and Mask AU. It involves a harem, and two mechs who make questionable choices. It is not intended as dub con, so it is not tagged as such. Please do your due diligence, if this is not your cup of tea, do not read it.

By now, it had become an ornly ritual. With great pomp, Jazz was led into the harem, to a settee carved inlaid with crystals, and served a great feast. There, accompanied by the viceroy, and his courtiers, the Prince fuelled and was entertained. He loathed the spectacle, and the great importance with which it was displayed. Stellar-cycles after his unexpected inheritance following the death of his half-brother and progenitor, the former saboteur was all but chomping at the bit for some space, and some peace. But there was no heir to Polihex, no one to follow him should the worst come to pass, and after the murder of a prince and the early death of sovereign the court and the principality of Polihex on a whole were quite desperate for Jazz to produce an heir, and to do that, he needed to make use of the concubines invested in his harem. Except he loathed the very idea.

 

Ideally, according to Tracks, he would select a concubine each dark-cycle, or at least several dark-cycles an orn, to keep his berth. The first vorn of his reign was coming to a close, and the fact that the Prince had found no concubine appealing enough to ‘face was a concern to the court. Mechanisms were beginning to wonder if he was even capable of siring an heir, they wondered if he had the same troubles of his progenitor. Jazz did not give a single frag what they said about his supposed impotence. He was fragging sure that Tracks had shared the whisper in no small part to manipulate him into fragging one of these dancing jewels to prove his naysayers wrong. Tracks was fond of these subtle and not so subtle manipulations. If the Urayan was not so useful, the Polihexian would have told him to go frag himself by now, but Jazz had not grown up in the harem, as Ricochet had, had not even grown up in Polihex, and so the ways of the court and the principality were still very foreign to him, and he needed the viceroy’s advice... for now.

 

Most of the dancers were skilled, which they should have been considering the cost incurred by the ornly instructions from the Maestro and his assistants. One dancer, however was almost painful to watch, and yet this was the one he found himself watching. The Praxian was not trying to keep pace with the music, or engage the gathered mechanisms. As he moved mechanically from his spot on the stage, he looked over Jazz’s helm, never at him, or any of the courtiers. In fact, the expression on his face was marked indifference, even disdain. He stood out from the other dancer, who all looked at the Prince with expressions ranging from coy to lustful. And as the others danced their parts in synchronously, the Praxian made his own harmony as the crystal hung immediately in front of his bared valve, and the others strung between his doorwings rang out with their own song.

 

“Has one caught your fancy?” Tracks asked as the small banquet was cleared.

 

“That one,” Jazz replied, without thinking. “The Praxian.”

 

That was how he came to have this dour looking mech sitting on his berth, watching him with clear, and clever optics. A prince of Praxus, now that was a surprising bit of information. Not that Jazz knew much about Praxus, but he seemed to recall that the Emperor was the originator of the three princes, and he kept a “stable” of favourites. It was not exactly a harem, but it was not so different. Still, the Empire of Praxus was a considerably grander kingdom than simple Polihex. No doubt the expression of concubine’s faceplates had been disdain, it would have been a considerably lowering fate to wind up in his harem.

 

“How did I manage to have a Praxian in my harem?” Jazz asked. Though he was lounging on the berth, with an intentionally languid air, he was ever the alert operative his origin had trained him to be.

 

“I killed your brother,” the Praxian replied, looking intently into his visor. Jazz could only stare back at the mechs cold blue optics.

 

“You killed Ric?” He asked, before falling into helpless laughter. “Awfully daring thing to admit.”

 

“He was the Spawn of Unicron,” the concubine replied. “His behaviour was atrocious. He would not be dissuaded by his interest in my frame. When he turned that interest on my younger brother, I ended him.”

 

“Ain’t that reckless to admit?” Jazz asked. “Considerin’ he was my brother?”

 

“You were exiled for your safety, were you not?” The Praxian asked. “The concubines in the harem may have changed, but the servants have not. I understand you were fed metal shards in your energon when you were a newling, a nearly lethal accident.”

 

“Ric was precocious, but that wasn’t him,” the Prince replied. “His origin, almost certainly... But he did throw me out a window. So yer right. I wasn’t fond o’ him. Wit him outta the way, my fortunes took a twist... I ‘spose ya think I outta thank ya?”

 

“I do not pretend to know your processor,” the concubine said, he slid up the berth, slowly. “I could thank you, however. If you have chosen to spare my life.”

 

It was insane, even considering fragging the mech who had just admitted to the murder of his brother, but Jazz was more than just considering it. He cocked his helm at the Praxian, and beckoned him closer. The concubine raised his chin, as slowly crawled up the berth. Funny, it was not at all a seductive crawl, but it perked Jazz’s interest nonetheless. As the Prince watched, this Praxian prince, turned concubine reached his side, and laid his servo flat on Jazz’s mid section. Though he moved efficiently, there was tension in the Praxian’s frame, and that tension did not ease when the mech crawled onto Jazz’s lap, and angled his frame in a manner probably meant to be provocative. The concubine reached down for crystal still dangling in front of his valve. Jazz cocked his servo, and pulled it up, and away from the Praxian’s array.

 

“What’s yer designation?” Jazz asked, keeping hold of the mech’s servo.

 

“Prowl,” the Praxian replied.

 

“Prowl,” the Prince echoed. “Well handsome, ain’t much o’ a thank ya if I hurt ya, is it? Ya still got a seal there or me to take care of.”

 

“What do you wish me to do then?” Prowl asked.

 

“Oh, it’s not what ya gotta do,” Jazz replied. He let go of the concubine’s servo, reached between them and pulled the crystal from his array. Then he reached around Prowl’s back and stroked his opposable digit along the clash that attached on end of the strung crystals’s to the Praxian’s doorwings. The mech shivered almost imperceptibly. “These need to go first.”

 

Prowl shivered again when Jazz unclasped all three strings, one clasp at a time. The surface of his array felt warm against Jazz’s plating. So at least that rumour was true, doorwings were erogenous. He tossed the strings away, heard them clatter and break when they hit the floor and could not bring himself to care. Once he had freed Prowl’s doorwings from the strings, they dipped gently and fell open. Jazz had no understanding of the doorwing language at all, but he guessed it was more relaxed pose. Intrigued by these sensory panels, the Prince lightly smoothed his servos over the broad panels, drawing a definitive shudder from the Praxian. Based on the hot protoform pressed against Jazz’s panel, he thought the touch did not hurt. Some how, Prowl remained perfectly quiet, his ventilations were scarcely out of rhythm.

 

“Is it true what they say about these?” Jazz asked.

 

“What do they say?” Prowl asked, his voice a little softer, and not quite husky but intriguingly close.

 

“Can ya overload from these alone?” He asked, continuing to stroke the panels as they began to flutter under his servos.

 

“I have heard it said,” the Praxian replied. “I have not experienced it.”

 

“Would ya like to find out?” Jazz asked.

 

“I am at _your_ service,” Prowl said, emphasizing that glyph.

 

“Ah, but it would be my service,” the Polihexian replied. “Prowl, have ya ever been kissed?”

 

“Absolutely not!” the concubine said, jerking his helm up. “It would have been unseemly.”

 

“And now?” Jazz asked, and smiling, took that proud chin and cocked it down, gently.

 

“You want me to kiss you?” Prowl asked, not pulling free, but staring with a hint of curious suspicion.

 

“Lemme show ya how,” he replied.

 

Jazz brought their mouths together, and kissed the Praxian first softly, then with increasingly more fervour. Prowl did not know how to respond, but he moved his mouth against Jazz’s, and became more bold with the passing kliks. As the novice found his stride, the Prince returned to the mech’s broad doorwings, running his servos along the base of each doorwing, and up the smooth plating. He tasted the concubine’s soft vents, and purred in response. Feeling the mech’s arousal building Jazz slipped his glossa into Prowl’s mouth, and teased the Praxian’s glossa with his own. Tentatively, the mech responded, and the Polihexian was emboldened. His digits scratched, ever so slightly along the edges of Prowl’s doorwings, and as he flicked the very tips, the concubine gasped against his mouth, and his whole frame shook with the rush of heat. With a final brush of his lips, Jazz moved his helm back.

 

“How was that?” He asked.

 

“Intriguing,” Prowl said, optics glowing bright.

 

“Then let’s play a little more,” Jazz replied.

 

He swept the concubine up, and laid him back on the berth. Prowl’s back arched as his doorwings touched the pillows. For a moment the Polihexian was concerned, but he felt the mech vent a shaky intake as he tried to relax. Jazz did not exactly leer over him, but he remained seated upright as he ran his servos over the Praxian’s handsome bumper. Prowl’s helm dropped back and he sighed softly. Keeping watch on the mech’s expression, the Prince kneaded the curved plating, and dipped his digits between armour plating. Charge building again, Prowl moved against his touch, against it, and away from it, writhing as his sensitized doorwings brushed against the pillows. Watching the Praxian come completely undone was a sight to behold, and his own charge rose in response. Leaning over, Jazz caught the mech’s mouth again, and chirred with approval as Prowl opened his mouth to him and flicked his own glossa, experimentally against his own. The Praxian’s servos clutched his shoulders tightly as he was met with another overload. He never stopped shifting and shivering, and when Jazz cupped his array with his servo, Prowl audibly moaned, and tossed his helm back. Like with all the concubines, he spike was capped, the ensure any newsparks conceived were the Prince’s, and no other’s. His bared but still sealed valve was plump, and hot to the Polihexian’s touch. Jazz brushed his opposable digit against the seal, and found it soft and malleable.

 

“You are a tease,” Prowl declared, baffled and hoarse.

 

“That’s more ‘n half the fun,” Jazz replied. “Besides, makes this easier.”

 

As the Praxian watched, the Prince scratch a sharp digit against the seal. Prowl shifted under him, not fretfuly, but more impatient. Jazz slipped a servo under his waist, and caught the concubine’s leg under the knee, as he pinned his other leg with his arm as he slowly worked the seal. It cave under his gentle pressure, and the Polihexian’s digit breached the mech’s valve as lubricant spilled from behind the seal in a quick flood. The Praxian’s valve was molten hot, and so very hot and tight. Carefully, but as quickly as he dared, Jazz prepared Prowl for what was to come next. For his part, the concubine bucked into his questing digits, and moaned so sinfully it was difficult for Jazz to not just climb between his legs and to take him.

 

Every wet twist of his digits made arousal pool in Jazz’s array, his spike was perilously close to pressurizing without his command. Soon, soon he promised himself, but not yet, he crooked is digits inside the Praxian, testing untouched sensory nodes for the first time. His ventilations rose to match Prowl’s. Finally, the concubine let out a short, sharp cry and he overloaded, valve convulsing tightly around Jazz’s digits. Before the overload could end, the Prince climbed on top of Prowl, and slowly entered him. Prowl clutch his arms and dropped his helm back, mouth dropped in a silent cry. His expression was blown, higher functions flown. experience. Jazz watched his face as he slowly rocked into him, and listened to Prowl moan and gasp. Under him, the Praxian writhed, twisting his lower body in uncoordinated gestures. The concubine was so hot and tight around him, and it had been so long since he had interfaced, Jazz luxuriated in the handsome mech’s frame. Eventually, it was not enough to slowly rock his spike in and out of Prowl’s sinfully slick valve, and he kicked up the pace, moaning himself at the wet squelch as his spike drove deep into the concubine’s core. Prowl spasmed around him, overloading again, and this time, Jazz followed. When he could regain his equilibrium, the Polihexian withdrew, and sagged to the berth on his side. Next to him, Prowl’s vents worked noisily as they worked to cool his frame. He did not move, in fact he barely reacted when Jazz pulled the blankets up, and he was deep in recharge before the Prince dropped his helm to the pillow.

 

***

 

Prowl woke as sunlight hit his face. There was a distinct throb deep inside him, not pain but a reminder that he had been thoroughly debauched, and that he had enjoyed it thoroughly. After nearly a vorn in the harem, the Prince had taken him to his berth, the opening he had long been waiting for, and he had wasted it. The light-cycle had long begun, and he had recharged through his first opportunity in stellar-cycles to escape this backwards place. He almost laughed, almost. Instead he stared at the ceiling, and wondered how it was he had miscalculated this badly. Every concubine and servant in the harem had been whispering about how the Prince had not taken a single one of them, not even once, for the entirety of his reign. True eighty stellar-cycles was not so long a time, but it was long enough for a healthy mechanism with a healthy interface drive to go without. Though that might have explained how enthusiastic the Prince had been, and how thorough. Prowl had thought he could frag him, lull him into a happy recharge, and slip away. Instead, the mech had just about fragged him into recharge. Next time... Next time when the Polihexian had not been so long without, then he could slip away. His valve clenched at the idea of a next time, it was not altogether an unpleasant thought.

 

“My washracks are free for ya if ya wanna clean up,” Jazz offered, from across the berth.

 

“You do not want me returning to the harem like this?” Prowl asked.

 

“I don’t think ya’d like the spectacle,” the Prince replied, surprising the Praxian.

 

“You are correct,” he said. “I really would not.”

 

“Take however long ya like,” Jazz said. “There’s energon for ya when yer done.”

 

Though he cleaned all traces of transfluids and lubricants from his frame, there was no hiding what had passed from the inquisitive optics of the courtiers and servants he passed as the Prince escorted him back to the harem. A new crystal dangled in front of his valve, but it was nowhere close to hide the missing seal, and the debauched state of his orifice. The crystal brushed against his valve each time he took a step and Prowl loathed it. It tickled him in a particularly obnoxious way, and he could only hope he was merely hypersensitive or he thought he might find himself dripping half-aroused and dripping lubricants whenever he dared to move. That thought did not amuse him at all.

 

“I think I’d like to call for ya again,” the Polihexian said as they arrived at the harem, and there it was, another chance.

 

“Do not demure on my part,” Prowl replied.

 

Jazz did call him again. At first it was every orn, after each of those obnoxious feasts, though Prowl refused to ever dance again. It was unlawful to beat the concubine of a Prince, and so the dance masters could do nothing to force his cooperation. The crystal did tease his valve whenever he moved, and the idea of letting those courtiers see the lubricants form on the lips of his valve was absolutely intolerable. If the Polihexian had a complaint about his absence from the performances, he never said anything. But he had no reason to, he got a considerably more intimate performance whenever he brought Prowl to his berth.

 

Though he tried to stay online until after Jazz recharged, somehow Prowl was never able to. Even when they interfaced in a more leisurely fashion, and spent the better part of the dark-cycle talking about matters of court, the Praxian inevitably recharged first. It was frustrating, to say the least. What was not frustrating was Jazz’s inclination to ask him for his thoughts and opinions. After so many stellar-cycle unable to do anything but plot his escape, the chance to really use his processor was intoxicating, and he suspected he did not hide his excitement particularly well. Still, Jazz never complained, and he always came back to him, and told him how he had used his advice, and Prowl felt he had some meaningful value.

 

It started as an ornly event, but over the stellar-cycle and then stellar-cycle Jazz called for him almost every dark-cycle. This was how his forge had come to swell with the heir to the throne. Close to the end of his confinement, Prowl was woken by the energetic kick of his growing creation. Just like his progenitor, the newspark was a lively thing, always twisting, and rolling and kicking, keeping Prowl online for half the dark-cycle. But still, Jazz always stayed awake with him, or came awake before him. Except this dark-cycle. Stroking the curved protoform beneath his chassis armour, the Praxian rose from the berth. He looked down at the recharging Polihexian and slowly walked, or rather waddled, over to the window. For a joor at least he stood and stared at the garden ever so lightly illuminated by the glow of Cybertron’s moons.

 

“Still plottin’ yer escape?” Jazz asked from the berth. The Praxian sighed, and he shook his helm. It figured the Prince had always known.

 

“You guessed, and yet you let me beyond the harem walls so often,” he said, unconsciously stroking the plating which hid his growing newspark.

 

“I figured if ya actually managed to slipped out from under my olfactory ridge, ya deserved to go,” the Polihexian replied, he reached out his servo, and helpless to do anything else, Prowl returned to the berth. Helpless, not because Jazz called for him, and he had to obey, but because this was what his spark called for him to do. “I couldn’t resist ya. There’s always been something about ya. From the moment ya told me ya did Ricochet in, I knew ya were my match.”

 

“You have odd quantifiers,” Prowl said, though it match what Jazz had shared of his background. He curled up into Jazz’s arms and relax as the other mech stroked the swell of his protoform.

 

“You’ll be my consort,” Jazz promised. “’N when ya are, ‘m gonna pull down the temple. It’ll will always be ya, ‘n ya’ll always gonna be at my side.”

 

In the early joors of the light-cycle, Prowl sat in the rock chair, leaning back against the thick pillows that covered the back. His princeling suckled sleepily at his energon line, and the Praxian basked in unexpected contentment. As Jazz had promised, he was consort. The Prince’s mark was painted in gold at the centre of his chevron. Just like the Polihexian had promised, the harem had been opened, the concubines released in bonding to courtiers and lords, ignoring all protests from within the court. What was to be done with garish space, Jazz had not decided, and Prowl did not care. He would not go back there again. Jazz appeared in the nursery’s doorway and Prowl smiled, tiredly. Their bitlet was long from recharging through the dark-cycle, and the consort was still getting used to the broken recharge. It was worth it all, of course. There was no way he would trust a wet nurse with his newling.

 

“I have a gift for ya” Jazz said as he knelt by the rocking chair. Prowl turned his helm and kissed his Conjunx Endura before taking the datapad. He read the neat script. It proclaimed the Emperor of Praxus had mysteriously drowned, a discarded goblet and empty bottle of engex were found at the edge of the bath. Jazz gave him a knowing smile, and Prowl kissed him again. It had not been so long ago that he had finally told the Prince all the terrible things his originator had done to him, to his brothers. It had not taken Jazz long to formulate his revenge.

 

“Thank you,” Prowl said. “I cannot think of a better gift.”


	13. Fake Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you follow me on Tumblr this is eventually, probably going to work into Intransigence. But honestly it works as a ficlet of its own right.

The ballroom was decked out in platinum and gold drappery, perfectly formed crystals hung from the ceiling, catching the light and casting a delicate glow over the floor. Soft music wafted through the air as senators, ambassadors and the wealthy elite of Iacon and abroad socialized at the very top floor of the tallest spire in the Transluscentia Heights. Jazz was painted and polished to perfection, medals of honour displayed on his chassis; it was a garish look, but the Polihexian had a part to play, and play it he would. His ticket to this ritzy party was across the ballroom. It surprised Jazz how easily Prowl worked the room. For a mech known for his anti-social behaviour, it was intriguing to see him weave in and out of the clusters of mechansisms as he collect flutes of sparkling engex or he and Jazz. From across the room, the saboteur heard every glyph the newly minted Chief of Tactics spoke, and he memorized every designation the Praxian uttered. When Smokescreen had suggested Jazz use his originator as his ticket into the party, it had been a surprise. He had not thought of deals like this being the tactician’s thing, but it was clear that he knew who the players were, and how to talk to them, and stranger still, they knew him. A couple of mechanisms made veiled comments to it having been vorns since they had seen him, since what they referred to as his sudden departure.

Prowl returned to his side, and handing him the engex, and the veiled comments stopped. Jazz put his arm around the Praxian’s waist, and felt his partner stiffen. It was not the most comfortable set up for him either, but they had parts to play, and if anyone here was going to be convinced they were a couple, they would have to act like it. They might have hoped to get through the gala without much spotlight, but Prowl was attracting as much attention as Jazz was, merely by existing. As he sipped his engex, Jazz stroked a digit against Prowl’s lower back, willing him to relax. He did, as much as the saboteur thought he ever could. They walked a slow circle around the ballroom. Jazz was the outsider, if his frametype was not enough to make his stand out, his accent was. There was no hiding either of these things, and he did not waste his time trying. Many a rich mech had a romantic notion of war and the Autobots, and the medals the Polihexian war was enough to keep them constantly engaged in conversation with these wealthy elite.

Jazz found himself telling the same story as the dark-cycle wore on, recounting the battle for Tyger Pax where he had personally saved Prime’s self-sacrificing aft. Of course he did not phrase it that way, but that really was the more accurate description of the events. But he waxed poetic on it, for sake of his audience, and they lapped it up like starving mechanisms. Prowl, thankfully, remembered his own part, and he bowed his helm, and played the proud lover to the crowd as Jazz told the story again. Servants walked the floors, laden with trays of energon goodies. The Polihexian took one and fed it to Prowl after they had finished their intoxicating fuel.

The dance floor opened, and Jazz led Prowl onto it. He offered the gods a brief prayer that the Praxian could dance. Prowl did not disappoint. As the band struck the first note, the tactician took the Polihexian’s servo in his, and rested the other on Jazz’s shoulder, and in turn, Jazz put his free servo around Prowl’s back, and they spun across the floor. It was a fine bit of irony, the Praxian was not an especially graceful or comfortable dancer, he was more confident in these classic steps than Jazz. Confidence, at least on the Polihexian’s part could be faked, and fake it he did, as he dipped Prowl low, and drew him pack up. A flash of yellow and blue just outside the servants’ entrance caught Jazz’s optics, and he guided Prowl across the floor, twirling and dipping as he did. They arrived at the edge of the dance floor just as the music ended. Against the tactician’s audial he faked a kiss and promised to return. Prowl’s nod was almost imperceptible.

To the saboteur’s relief, the Praxian made no attempt to follow. He knew his place in the mission, thank Primus for small favours. There was no sign of the operative now, but Jazz was not surprised. As he slipped farther off the dance floor, mingling as he went. It took, to his consternation, longer than it should have to make his way to the dimly lit corner. Those medals he war attracted a lot of attention, more than he had actually expected. They were only supposed to be enough to defend his presence at Prowl’s side, it seemed to Jazz, that even without the Praxian, he probably would have been allowed into the gala, based on the cult-like worship the Autobots had. Despite wearing the Autobot brand, this cult-like mentality worried him. Mechanisms, he thought, needed to spend more time thinking for themselves than worshipping charismatic leaders.

Without turning, Jazz reached a servo behind himself, palm open. A servo he knew was red dropped a dataslug into his. The exchange took nanokliks. As he curled his servo around the dataslug, the saboteur extended his field offering both thanks and a wish for the agent to be safe. Punch led their fields mesh, something like a hug. Not for the first time Jazz questioned how it was his originator was the one in the field and him the one in command, but of course he knew perfectly well that Punch had no use for rank and subordinates. His originator disappeared back from wence he came, and Jazz stepped back into the ballroom, and went in search of his date. Stopping a waiter as he passed, the Polihexian took two flutes of engex, the perfect explanation for his absence, if anyone thought enough to ask. He spotted the Praxian a nanoklik later, a cross the room, by the balcony doors, and he was not alone. The ops mech in him did not allow such a development to pass without a little subterfuge, and so he blended into the crowd at the edge of the dance floor. Jazz found cover from Praxian optics and doorwings, and listened.

“The company you keep leaves much to be desired,” the silver Praxian said.

“Jazz falling so low in your esteem only raises him in mine,” Prowl replied, completely unaffected by the other mech’s scorn. “What do you think to gain confronting me, Crosscut. There are four hundred stellar-cycles between us, I would prefer millenia more.”

“You are more arrogant than you have any right to be,” Crosscut, as Prowl had called him, sneered.

“You are as free with your opinions as ever,” the monochrome mech replied. “You will be displeased to note they have been noted and disregarded.”

“I hope my heir has not inherited your manners,” the elder Praxian said, with disdain.

“Smokescreen in my creation, not your heir,” Prowl replied. “I cannot forbid him from knowing you now, but you will not find way to him through me. If having an heir was so important to you, you and Bishop should have treated his originator better.”

Prowl turned his back to the elder Praxian, and eased his way into the crowd. The mech he called Crosscut did not follow, he only glared contemptuously at Prowl’s back. Of course the Praxian Autobot would have seen the look, given his doorwings, but Jazz doubted that he cared. He watched at the balcony doors slid open and closed, and he waited. Only when Crosscut walked back across the dance floor, cutting straight through dancer pairs, did the Polihexian go after his partner. Jazz did not bother calling to Prowl as he stepped out onto the balcony. But he waited until Prowl’s dipped a doorwing in his direction, a silent invitation, before he joined the mech at the railing.

“You have what you came for?” Prowl asked, softly, servos curled tightly over the railing as he stared out at the skyline.

 

“Got it,” Jazz replied. “We can leave soon as it won’t go noticed. Not much longer.”

 

“I hate these carnivals,” the Praxian murmured.

 

“Despite, y’re a natural,” the saboteur replied. “That mech, givin’ ya a hard time, who was he?”

 

“Smokescreen’s grandprogenitor,” Prowl explained. “My Conjunx Endura was a higher caste. When he was not Primus knows where on another business venture, he took me to these things. Crosscut and Bishop are richer their many of these senators could imagine. Polaris was their heir.”

 

“He died when Smokey was small,” the Jazz said. “Smokey said he don’t remember ‘m.”

 

“Polaris was killed in a shuttle accident shortly after Smokescreen had his first upgrades,” the tactician replied. “I stayed in Crosscut and Bishop’s compound, as his widow, as was expected. I could do nothing right by either of them. They countermanded every decision I made for Smokescreen. To be fair, it was Bishop who gave me the most grief, Crosscut was often away from Praxus, serving as ambassador to some state or planet. Bishop had no respect for me, not as Smokescreen’s originator, and not as a mech. It had not been a pleasant life before Polaris died, but his death only made Bishop worse. He was determined to raise my creation, to mold him into the new heir. He did everything to push me out of my own creation’s life.”

 

“So ya left,” the Polihexian said.

 

“I slipped out of the compound during a party like this, Smokescreen in my arms,” Prowl revealed. “And boarded the first transport to Iacon. I had saved enough to resettle us, without any help from them. Until this dark-cycle, I had not spoken to either of them since my flight.”

 

“Even if he can find him, most he can try ‘n do is bribe Smokey with credits, but ya know that ain’t gonna lure ‘m away,” Jazz said. “He ain’t about credits.”

 

“The credits they could offer him would change any mechanism’s life,” the Praxian replied

 

“Not in anyway he’d want,” the tactician replied. “He likes what he’s doin’ in Iacon, ‘n he is never gonna leave ya.”

 

From behind them, the doors slid open and Jazz pulled Prowl down for a quick kiss. A camera flashed, and Jazz pulled back from the Praxian to give the report, and the shutterbug a genuine look of exasperation. Before the reporter could extend his recorder, the saboteur linked arms with Prowl, and led him back inside, and out of rangee. Walking a wide loop around the room, he led the tactician to the elevator. Waiting there, Jazz pulled the Praxian tight to his side and angled Prowl’s face down to his. To any observers, and there was no question they were being watched, they would look completely enamoured with each other, and no one would question why they were leaving. As the elevator door opened, a pair of senators he had been regaling earlier came around the corner. Not wanting to be stopped, Jazz brushed his olfactory ridge against Prowl’s.

 

“’M gonna take ya home,” he said. “’N have my wicked way wit ya.”

 

“I look forward to it,” Prowl replied, voice silky soft. If Jazz had not known better, he might have believed it.

 

Thankfully, the elevator opened before they had to put on more of a show. Prowl stepped in, and drew him inside, and closed the doors before anyone else could think of getting on. Though he was relieved to have his originator’s intel, Jazz could not help but be concerned for his rookie, and his rookie’s originator by default. Crosscut seemed more like an entitled aft than a Decepticon, but that did not mean he could not pose a problem. In under a bream, they were driving down the busy streets of the Transluscentia Heights. They were hardly the only mechanisms on the street, and the saboteur kept a close optic on the mechanisms behind them. He took a sharp turn, and Prowl quickly followed, so did a nondescript blue car. Looking to confirm that they had a tail, the Polihexian took another sharp turn, and just as before, not quite on Prowl’s aft, the other car followed behind them.

 

“One of Crosscut’s minions,” the tactician answered the question Jazz was just about to ask.

 

“He’s gotta figure Smokey lives wit ya,” Jazz guessed.

 

“That was my thought,” Prowl said. The fact that he could hear anxiety in the Praxian’s mental voice was enough motivation for Jazz took take it seriously.

 

“Guess we’re havin’ a slumber party at my place,” the saboteur said. “Ain’t a fraggin’ chance he can follow us up. I wrote the encryption.”

 

“I am grateful,” the Praxian replied.

 

“Any time, Prowler,” Jazz said.


	14. Reincarnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is short... I like reading about reincarnation but it's not something that inspires me to write.

“There’s nowhere you can go where I won’t follow.”

 

He was tired... no. No, it went beyond simple energy deficiency, he was... weary down to the core of his spark. The memory fluxes, or rather memory purges, had returned with force, haunting his every attempt at recharge. The others where eyeing him with either pity or suspicion. With the revelation of the hacking, the possession, the mnemosurgery, Prowl was floundering, sinking deeper and deeper into the blackest depression, and he had no will left to fight it. His life had been consumed by a war he had never wanted to fight, the mech he had respected most had tried to kill him, the mech he had once given his spark to had assaulted him in the worst possible of ways. How was he supposed to reconcile himself with these betrayals? Prowl did not have the answer.

 

Despite the late joor, Prowl had sequestered himself in his office. There was no reason for him to have an office, he had no function at all. But Fortress Maximus had given him the space, and left him to do with what he would. The new Duly Appointed of the Tyrest Accord had not given him any task, which was not unwise, the Praxian did not have the focus to actually use his tactical abilities. He lowered his helm to his desk, and grieved. Every time he powered down he saw his own death a thousand different ways, and he saw the death of another in just as many ways, and he was filled with hopelessness. In a thousand lives Prowl had not found this mech, not in time at least. This life had been no different.

 

“There’s nowhere you can go where I won’t follow.”

 

The promise echoed in his helm, and his spark constricted. He was alone. Even when he had thought himself surrounded by allies, friends, when he had thought himself safe with a lover, he had been wrong. Chromedome had used his needles on the tactician, dozens of times, twisting Prowl, warping him, leaving an angry and empty shell. At one point, the Praxian had imagined Tumbler might have been the speaker of those glyphs, the mech in his memory fluxes, but he had been disabused of that notion, horrifically disabused. Now, now after so many horrors he wondered if the speaker was Mesothulas, promising that he would never be free, never be safe. It would figure that the only mechanism who actually wanted him would be that monster.

 

“There’s nowhere ya could go I wouldn’t follow,” a familiar voice drawled. Prowl’s helm jerked up quick enough to make the world spin. Autobot Jazz looked down at him, optics masked as always by a wide visor.

 

“Jazz,” he whisper, voice hoarse with emotion. It had to be a mistake. How could it be anything else. There was a flicker of recognition in his spark, he dismissed it as false hope.

 

“Do ya remember how ya replied?” The saboteur asked. Mutely, Prowl shook his helm.

 

“I’ll be waitin’,” Jazz said. “Sorry I kept ya so long.”

 

Prowl shook his helm, hook it as his whole frame begun to shake, and a sob escaped his vents. He bowed his helm as his servos came up and he keened brokenly. Jazz came around the Praxian’s desk and pulled Prowl into his arms. The broken mech clung to him, and cried, and cried until his vocalizer shorted. All the while Jazz held him, crooning and stroking his back. When he had no tears left, Prowl raised his helm, and Jazz brushed the tears from his faceplates. How many times had he seen this mech’s face, heard his voice, sent him to the bowels of the Decepticon war machine? How many times had he seen this mech but not seen him?

 

“There’s somethin’ else I remember tellin’ ya,” the Polihexian said.

 

“What?” Prowl asked, unable to convince his digits to release the other mech’s plating. As much as his processor denied the possibility that any of this could have been so, his spark knew it was true.

 

“Have ya ever considered rechargin’ in a berth?” Jazz both asked and answered. Prowl could not help but laugh.

 

“I fluxed of you dying a thousand ways,” the Praxian said, as the memories of another life in this mech’s arms. “Ripped in half... I stopped believing you would find me.”

 

“There is nowhere ya could go I wouldn’t find ya,” the saboteur said. “A thousand lives, or a thousand more.”

 


	15. Faction Swap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to anyone hoping for a continuation of the other ficlet. This got into my head.

His fleet had grown by hundreds in the vorns since Prowl had founded it. The Pirate King of Petrex had been from the beginning a more effective commander than any of his enemies had imagined, and it had been, and still was this underestimation that had been the one time whore’s greatest advantage. Crosscut had under estimated his rage, his patience and his cunning. The foreign navies that knowingly sailed into his waters fully aware of the size of his fleet, they were cut from the same plating as Crosscut, and seizing their ships and cargo was a just reward for this arrogance. Praxus’ young emperor had ceded the seas in Praxus’ north to Prowl and his fleet. It was far less costly to the emperor’s treasury to pay the pirate protection shanix than replace the vessels that the clever Praxian sank when he felt the need to prove his point, or stole and painted in his own colours. Why sink a perfectly good warship or merchant vessel when you could name it, and claim it for your own? There was, of course, a catch. The seas were his, but the shores were off limits. Prowl had not stepped on any land in vorns, else risk capture and execution for piracy.

 

The seas of Petrex were filled with vessels painted black, and white with solar sails of red. It had been his greatest pleasure to paint the sails of the Judgment scarlet. It was a whore’s brand. Prowl’s chevron was painted that precise shade, it had not been his choice. Technically, the mutiny on Mortilus’ Gaze had been his first capture. But organizing the discontented crew against the pirate who had purchase Prowl’s debt from the brothel had been a simple, and even peaceful affair. They had left the former captain marooned on an empty atoll, and sailed away without a weapon being drawn. No, the pirate considered the capture of the Judgment, then called the Prize to be his first, and most satisfying act of piracy, and thinking of it still brought a smile of satisfaction to his faceplates. It had been Crosscut’s prized vessel, the very one Prowl had been sold into debt bondage to save. Better still than just catching the Prize, had been catching Crosscut at its controls. Keelhauling his disloyal Conjunx Endura had served as a measure of justice the law of the land would have denied him any right to.

 

His creation, who had followed to the brothel and then to the sea, was bursting with pride. Smokescreen had captured his first vessel on his first solo command. True, the vessel was a trader and not a warship, but Prowl was proud of his colourful creation’s ingenuity. Installing smoke bombs on his little junk had been a clever touch, and it had allowed him to take the considerably larger ship without losing a spark on either vessel. The unconditional surrender of intruding vessels was not an uncommon thing. Prowl’s reputation was well known. Fire a shot on his ships, and your life was forfeit, surrender meant marooning, or capture. Neither was a horrific fate. Sailors marooned were left with fuel, and those of higher status were held for ransom. It was this venture that had delivered Prowl his best profits for the last few vorns.

 

Smokescreen was heading back out to sea, excited to make another capture. Before he could, the young mech transferred three prisoners to the brig on the Judgment. The ship Smokescreen had captured had sailed under the Autobot banner, which boded well for Prowl’s coffers. Eventually, the Decepticon warlord generally paid ransom if the prisoner was of any reasonable rank, sometimes however Megatron abandoned less Decepticons to the Praxian’s mercies, lucky for those poor sparks Prowl had use for more sailors, and so long as they could comport themselves in a halfway reasonable standard, he was happy to take the abandoned Decepticons on. Autobots, however were always ransomed, which suited the Pirate King perfectly.

 

He strolled down to the hold after waving Smokescreen off, to see what he might get for these captured Autobots. The brig only had a half dozen cells, he had a hulk to serve as prison ship, as much for his own intractable crewmechanisms as prisoners, and he would sail to the waters it stayed anchored in if the Autobots took to long with their reply. Prowl entered the brig, and the first two prisoners rose. Their expressions were not respectful, but rather angry, but they stood in his presence because there was no question to whose mercy they been submitted. Captain and First Officer, mechanisms he had not captured before. This was likely their first experience behind bars, they were fortunate to be in his brig. Unlike most cells in most ships, those in the Judgment had padded berths and even a simple, open washrack in each cell. As brigs went, this was a luxurious set up. Walking past the first two prisoners, Prowl stopped at the third. The mech, a Polihexian, rose now. It was not out of respect, the pirate knew this from the expression and the posture of the mech. He was openly intrigued. Primus bless the curious because they would be in his arms soon.

 

“Captain,” Prowl said with his customary, educated accent. “You will give me your details so I can calculate your ransom. Lying to me will only result in an extended stay, and the loss of these comforts.”

 

“I am Captain Aquafend,” the burgundy and black Towers mech replied. “My First Officer, Repugnus, and Maestro Jazz.”

 

“I was under the impression you were piloting a trading vessel, not a transport,” the pirate said. The Autobot’s mandible clenched but he kept his manners.

 

“The Maestro needed to return to Iacon with haste,” Aquafend explained. “He has the Prime’s patronage.”

 

“Then the Prime will pay handsomely for his return,” Prowl replied, and he left his new prisoners to adjust to their surroundings.

 

The next mega-cycle Prowl rose before dawn and climbed out onto the deck to watch the sunrise as he fueled. It did not surprise him to find another mech on deck. But it did surprise him when he saw who it was. How had the Maestro gotten out of the cell? Annoyed by this development, especially at this early joor, Prowl stalked up to the Polihexian, who did not look the least bit concerned that _he_ had found him. In fact, the mech had the audacity to smile, to smile at Prowl. As with so many artists, this one had to have been insane, their was no other explanation. He flicked his doorwings back and out, and moved to toss his fuel as he approached the escaped prisoner.

 

“Y’re better off drinkin’ that,” the mech said... Jazz. The captain had called him Jazz. 

 

“How did you escape your cell?” Prowl demanded, coolly. His digits curled over the top of the cube in his servo. He did not throw it.

 

“Force field went down,” Jazz said, and he shrugged his shoulders. “So I took a walk.”

 

“Do not take anymore further walks on my ship,” the Praxian ordered. “You will return to your cell, now.”

 

“Whate’er ya say,” the Maestro replied, and he grinned... He actually _grinned_ at Prowl! The mech had to have a processor defect, a considerably worse one than the Praxian himself lived with. 

 

Before he thought to cough the errant prisoner, Jazz ambled towards the doors that led below desk. Processor literally spinning at the mech’s audacity, Prowl followed him to the cells. His comrades were still in recharge as the Polihexian actually ambled into his cell. As he had said, the force field was down and Prowl was... confused. He entered the appro priate code, and the force field materialized, and he was only further confused. Feeling a processor ache coming on, Prowl alerted the watch and stationed one of his crew in front of the cells and he roused his engineer. Whatever had brought the field down needed to be discovered and repaired. They could not have prisoners just... loitering on deck!

 

Prowl did not return to the deck, knowing how his helm aches went, the pirate returned to his quarters and drank his fuel seated on his berth, before laying down again. Though he kept the ships infirmary well stocked, Prowl was loath to use blockers of any sort. It did not matter how many vorns he sailed with this crew, the Praxian had gained control over these very mechanisms through treachery and he was not naive enough to believe they might never turn on him. He reduced these risks by being fair and even servoed, but greed was a powerful motive. Few mechanisms went to the sea for anything less than fortune and adventure, and though he provided both to his crew, a fortune split in fewer ways was a greater fortune in whomever’s servos it fell. He wished, he really wished that this light-cycle had been the end of it. But the Polihexian found his way from the cells, if not every mega-cycle, every other, and Prowl had had quite enough.

 

“Tell me how you keep escaping,” Prowl ordered, having cornered the mech in the galley this time. What was this, the fool’s tenth escape? The Judgment was sailing for the hulk now. He needed this mech off his ship, now. “You have tested my patience for the final time.”

 

“Threats now, sweetspark?” Jazz crooned innocently. “Ever think there’s something wrong with yer wirin’.”

 

“There is something wrong with your wiring,” the Praxian hissed. He actually hissed. “Get back to your cell!”

 

As with every other escape, Jazz led the way to the cells, as Prowl very seriously considered  shooting the mech and forgetting the ransom. The Prime’s navy had been no match for his fleet yet, surely his wrath could not make it any more powerful? He watched Jazz stroll into the cell he had been moved to after the previous escape, and just as the Maestro was stepping in, Prowl watched the mech hit the lock code. His servo slipped into the cell just before the force field went up, saving Jazz from grievous injury. Prowl whipped around and glared at Captain Aquafend, the Towers mech raised his servos, and shook his helm, absolving himself of any responsibility for the insane mech’s behaviour. If he escaped again, Prowl would toss him overboard, he had no patience left. 

 

Primus below, the mech was flirting with him, the pirate had not lived in a brothel for a vorn without learning something of the mechanics. It was insanity. Perhaps it was the fashion for the court of Iacon to engage a fool, certainly the Crystal Empire had that practice. Well Prime could have Jazz, have him for free at this stage, Pit, Prowl would pay him to take the mech back. It was that very thought that was circling in Prowl’s processor when the Judgment rocked. An alarm wailed, and the Pirate King ran from the hold and up to the deck. From the moment he stepped ped outside, he was issuing commands. There was no mistaking the purple emblem on the monstrous warship’s mast.  So Megatron had sent a ship after him again. 

 

Prowl raised his servo and a trumpet sounded. All power went to the Judgment’s engines and the pilot turned the vessel to catch the sun and wins and it jetted away from the warship. His resident ship was no match for a warship in strength, but the Judgment was fast, and this was what he needed. He had nearly three hundred vessel in these seas, some small junks, some great beasts like the one on his aft, and all the Praxian needed to do to add this garish thing to stable was to lead it into the jaws of his fleet. Shells explode just metres from the Judgment’s aft. These cretins knew the Prowl’s reputation, they were confident in their strength, confident that they could end him before he could turn his guns on them. Because every Decepticon on that vessel would know the cost of firing on the Judgment. There would be no mercy. 

 

A series of trumpet sounds echoed over the ocean waves,  the fleet was coming. The net would be cast, but Prowl had to reach it first. More shells, that much closer, this warship was faster than any Megatron had sent for him. Prowl scowled back at it, before shouting orders to his pilot. With any luck he could capture it without sinking it, this ugly beast could be a strong addition to his arsenal. They surged again, the Judgment’s fine engine earning ever shanix of its upkeep, as the pilot steered the ship in the evasive manoeuvre Prowl had trained him in. Suddenly, the Judgment began to slow, and the engine made a strained sound.

 

“Use the sails,” Prowl ordered. “Steal power from wherever you must. I will see to the engine.”

 

Prowl ran back into his ship, passed the grew keeping ready at the guns. They had a shorter range than the warship but if it came to it, the Pirate King knew his crew would find like the damned sparks they were. Reaching the engine room, Prowl ran inside. The engineer was curiously absent, but the Praxian could not waste time on that problem, instead he ran to the controls and scanned them, searching for some explanation for their sudden loss of power. He found it, nanokliks after he had begun pouring over the panels. Inexplicably, the emergency break had been deployed. Sabotage. As he turned, he spotted the greyed frame of his engineer. Before he could process the sight, his doorwings warned of another presence, and he spun around just in time to dodge the attacker. It was the engineer’s apprentice, a former Decepticon... Or not so former, Prowl guessed. The mech slashed at him with a long blade, and the Praxian dodged again. There was no drawing a blaster or a rifle, the equipment in this room was too vulnerable. 

 

The Judgment rocked violently as it fell within range of the warship’s guns. Prowl stumbled, and fell against the engine’s controls. Seeing no other choice, he half turned and reached for the break control and manually forced them  off. Another violent shake, and the pirate turned back to his attacker, and went to dodge, but the mech was almost on top of him, knocking him to the floor, before he could react. Training from early in his life kicked in, and Prowl kicked the mech off and away with a firm push of both his legs. Again, the Judgment rocked, preventing the Praxian from regaining his peds, and the traitor loomed, the knife at Prowl’s throat. He dropped against the pirate’s chassis, a dead heavy weight. But only for a nanoklik before he was tossed off. Jazz knelt over him, a brilliant blue dagger in his servo. 

 

“Did he get ya?” Jazz asked, dropping the blade as he looked over Prowl’s frame. The Praxian could only shake his helm. What kind of entertainer was this mech? Gentle digits brushed his neck, and Prowl felt a prickle of pain.

 

“It is nothing,” he said.

 

“I think y’re right,” the Maestro replied. “Lemme help ya up.”

 

“What sort of entertainer are you?” Prowl asked.

 

“My skills are eclectic,” Jazz replied. 

 

“There is no point in trying to keep you in a cell,” the pirate sighed.

 

“No,” the Polihexian confirmed, smiling broadly. “But I’ll show myself back. Ya got more pressin’ concerns.”

 

He did. The Judgment was not unscathed, and they reached the twin pillars, great crystal spires that rose from small islands, not so far from Petrex’s shores. One mast down, and the solar sails shredded, the pilot took them around the curve. Sensing mechfluid, the Decepticon warship followed, and sailed right into the jaws of the fleet. Prowl watched from the deck of his first prize as his newest one was beaten into submission. Little junks sailed in tight loops round it, raking the vulnerable belly of the vessel with their small but strong guns. His warships came in as the intruder was distracted and took out its sails in a single swoop. In under a joor the Decepticon warship was boarded by Prowl’s own mechanisms. On the single remaining mast, the purple flag was lowered and his raised up high. 

 

Repairing damage such as the Judgments and his new prize at see was a delicate process. And both vessels were surrounded by junks, filled with craftsmechanisms. Prowl could not go to dry dock, but the dry dock could come to him. He stood on the Judgment, overseeing the repairs, and overseeing the departure of his hostages. The ransom had not been paid, but Prowl thought it would be poor gratitude if he took it, considering he only lived because of Maestro Jazz’s assistance. It still confused him, why the Polihexian had done it, but it was foolish to waste his energy trying to understand a madmech.

 

“Hey, Origin!” Smokescreen called down to him. Prowl looked up, and saw his creation swinging down the cables that controlled the newly installed sails. He was closely followed by another mech.

 

“Sharp mechlin’ ya got here,” Jazz said, and he walked passed Prowl, passed him and down below deck. The Pirate King froze... but... he had watched the mech board the junk!

 

“He taught me how to hold the cable so I didn’t burn my servos,” his creation said, holding his servos out for Prowl’s examination. 

 

“I do not understand,” the originator replied. “I put him on the junk.”

 

“Didn’t you see,” Smokescreen asked, excitedly. “He’s not wearing the insignia. You’ve got a new crewmech!”

 

“You had best not have an infatuation for that mech,” Prowl warned.

 

“No, Origin,” the young mech roared with laughter. His originator tossed his helm back as his doorwings flared with confusion. “I don’t think I’m his type... unlike somebody...”

 

“No,” the Pirate King said, his doorwings hiked up high. “No.”


	16. Neighbours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation from Enemies.

Contrary to proper belief, Jazz did like his alone time. Being the life of the party was wearing after a while, and though the Autobots needed a serious moral boost, right this klik, the saboteur could not be it. They had all be shaken to their core with the slaughter of Praxus, and a meagre quartex was not anything close to enough time to come to terms with that kind of atrocity. Many Autobots came from city-states still neutral in this war, they looked at the craters that served as Praxus’ remains and thought about their own families and homes. Polihex was not Neutral. Lord Straxus had staged a revolt, with Megatron’s aid and had taken control over the city-state. The unlucky Autobots staged within the borders met with terrible deaths. Many Polihexians had died in the issuing vorns, more still would, but Polihex remained, hope for it’s liberation remained. Praxus was gone, and millions of Praxian had died with their city-state. Only one single mechling had been found in the rubble, and preliminary reports suggested the mechling had not been on the ground when Praxus had been attacked, but in Decepticon servos. They had left him there in the ruins, traumatized, for the Autobots to find.

 

Jazz had not seen the mechling’s originator since that mega-cycle on the tarmac. His duty-shifts had been cancelled, the strategy sessions were going forward with limited oversight. From what the saboteur had heard, the plans were forwarded to Prowl’s inbox, and he was returning them revised or denied completely. Bots had not stopped talking about the SIC’s secret creation. It had shocked every Bot that had heard the news that the tactician had a youngling, and that he had been the one to carry the mechling. No one could imagine a mech like Prowl interfacing, let alone creating. He had been called a drone prior to the fall of Praxus, those accusations had only gotten louder as a result of his behaviour after the city’s destruction. To be fair, Jazz did not think he would want to mourn in public, and he did not have a creation to worry for.

 

His alone time had not been as relaxing as he would have liked. Out of respect for his new neighbours, he had kept the volume on his speakers to a “civilized” level, his new neighbours had not had the same courtesy. At any and all joors of light-cycle or dark, glyphless shouts or screams woke him from recharge, or ripped him from his mellow. At first, he had thought his neighbours might have god awful taste in holo-vids, but he had started to listen whenever the shouting started, and Jazz had come to conclude that it was the same voice every time, and he was getting suspicious and unnerved. Though the building was Autobot housing only, Bots were not automatically all a decent lot. Plenty were nasty, violent mechanisms fought for the Prime, just as plenty of decent mechanisms fought for Megatron. A shrill keen erupted from next door and the Polihexian jumped to his peds, setting his Aghartan electro-bass aside on his couch. It sounded like someone was being murdered, and he was not about to let that happen. Jazz thought it was time to introduce himself to his neighbours.

 

He stalked from his habsuite, awareness heightened, as it would be in any Decepticon fortress. The keening was even louder in the hall, and Jazz knew instantly why, the door to his neighbours habsuite was open. Following the shrill cries, he darted inside. As soon as he had crossed the threshold, the Polihexian stopped, as he took in the source of the screams. It was Prowl’s mechlings, curled in a ball and keening with terror as Prowl crouched over him, not hurting him, but soothing him. Jazz backed out of the Praxians’ habsuite and returned to his own unit. Now he probably recognized the screams and keens. Prowl’s bitlet was suffering flashbacks and terrors, common for a mechanism with post traumatic stress. Poor bitlet. Poor Prowl.

 

It had only taken a few nanokliks look to see that the SIC was in well over his helm. The suite was a mess of moving crates. Datapads Jazz recognized as Autobot issue were piled on the low table in front of a worn, old couch. He had not realized that Prowl had moved at all, let alone next door. Come to think of it, the move made sense, the Praxian’s old habsuite had been a bachelor set up, not even space for a procreator and a creation. Still, Jazz did not know how he felt about have the mech next door. If he wanted to blast tunes, he thought he was going to have to invest in some serious soundproofing, Prowl would not appreciate what the TIC considered to be a reasonable volume.

 

Prowl was over his helm. There was not a lot Jazz could do, but he could at least make himself useful. That bitlet would have lost everything, every possession and memento. He would not have a single toy or game, given everything going on, his originator had probably not purchased a ton of things for him yet. Managing the terrors, guardianship, and tactics probably had the Praxian run ragged. When the saboteur left his suite again, the door to Prowl’s was shut, and the keening had quieted. Poor little mech. Poor Prowl. In the vorns he had worked with the tactician, Jazz had never seen his doors that low. Seeing his creation in this state, being responsible for guiding him out of it was bound to be a strain on the self-contained mech.

 

Jazz was not out long. He visited the Megastore, not his preferred place to shop but it had everything, including the kitchen sink, and one stop shopping was precisely what the Polihexian needed this cycle. He filled a shopping crate with energon, oil and goodies, and another with gifts for the mechlings, and a couple of things for the origin. Once he saw how this went over, Jazz thought he would talk to Optimus about doing a quiet collection, to help stock Prowl’s place with all the things a young mech might need, so not all of the strain was left on the SIC’s shoulders. But before he arranged any such thing, he needed to see if Prowl was going to bite his helm off for thinking he needed any charity. Fact was, this was the army, and this was war, thanks to his rank, the Praxian did well, but he had a lot of demands on his credit stick now, and while a mech as smart and self-sufficient as him could probably manage it on his own, there was no need, not unless he demanded it.

 

Upon arriving back home, Jazz stopped immediately at Prowl’s door. He almost rang the buzzer, but stopped just before touching the button. That sound could just be enough to startle the mechling into another episode, and no one needed that. Instead the Polihexian dug Prowl’s personal comm ID from his records and sent him a ping. It was not surprising that Prowl did not answer immediately. At the best of times, the tactician accepted or dismissed calls based on his own set of priorities. Jazz had no mission guidelines submitted for the mech’s purview, he was bound to be low on his list. It was not too long however, before Prowl returned the call, just a bream.

 

“How can I help you, Jazz?” Prowl asked. Mental voice clipped.

 

“’M outside yer door,” Jazz replied. “Wonder if ya might open it for me.”

 

“My door?” The mech’s mental voice was almost a whisper, which was an interesting affect. Before Jazz could reply, the door slid open, and Prowl stepped into the doorway. Based on his expression, the stack of boxes in the saboteur’s arms was not what he was expecting.

 

“I thought ya needed a few things, the little mech too,” the Polihexian explained.

 

“You are not lodging a complaint?” Prowl asked, exhaustion evident in his voice and posture. Jazz was suddenly very angry for him.

 

“Been dealin’ wit that, huh?” He replied. “Not complainin’. I’ll level wit ya, ‘m next door. I thought maybe someone was bein’ hurt, I checked, and I get what’s goin’ on. Anyone wanna complain I’ll kick their afts.”

 

“Come in, Jazz,” the Praxian said. “I... Thank you for your understanding.”

 

“’M hopin’ this means ya’ll have a bit o’ patience wit me if my tunes get too loud,” Jazz joked. “Got your mechlin’ settled.”

 

“He is recharging,” Prowl said. “He... he is not recharging well in the dark-cycle.”

 

“Terrors, I gotcha,” the saboteur said. “I heard... Sorry he’s goin’ through this. He’s just a bitlet.”

 

“Thank you,” the SIC replied. “I am sorry your recharge has been effected.”

 

“I can handle it,” Jazz replied. “Can I put these down on yer table. Wanna go over them wit ya. Don’t wanna step on yer peds.”

 

“I am not worried,” Prowl said, clearing his datapads off the table, and quickly setting them in his subspace. “I... was not expecting anyone to go shopping for us.”

 

“I seen ya work wit both doorwings in splints, I know ya can manage yerself,” the TIC said. “This is harder. Be hard for two procreators wit a whole family network to help. So ‘m happy to help.”

 

“It is nothing I ever imagined,” the Praxian admitted. It was nothing, Jazz thought any procreator would imagine for their creation. He unpacked opened the crate of energon first, Prowl’s relief was palpable.

 

“I figured it might be hard to get to the store,” Jazz said.

 

“He cannot bare me out of his sight for more than nanokliks,” Prowl replied. “He cannot bare the outdoors or enclosed spaces. The mechanisms, the sounds are all triggering.”

 

“I can do yer shoppin’ til he’s ready to go along,” the Polihexian offered. “It’s early, scary and early. I know y’re gonna be workin’ wit ‘m.”

 

“I do not know what I am doing,” he tactician confessed. “I think it is my mere existence which comforts him best at the moment.”

 

“Fair,” Jazz said. “Got some toys for ‘m... I don’t know what ya got already... But some games, puzzles. Some books, for the both of ya. ‘N a blanket for yer couch... I don’t know... Thought he might like it.”

 

“Thank you,” Prowl said, staring at the crates. “I will transfer you credits.”

 

“No,” the TIC replied, shaking his helm. “These are gifts. A helpin’ servo. I ain’t takin’ yer credits.”

 

“You spent a small fortune,” the Praxian argued.

 

“I didn’t spend anythin’ I couldn’t afford,” Jazz replied. “Prowl, mech. Yer slagged on yer peds. Take the blanket, lie down on yer couch, ‘n I’ll put the energon away. ‘M willin’ to bet ya ain’t recharge proper yerself in orns.”

 

“I should argue,” Prowl said. “But I truthfully cannot.”

 

“Good,” the Polihexian replied. “Cause I wasn’t gonna let ya win.”

 

Prowl took the blanket and unfolded it before he laid down on his couch, doorwings facing out, and tossed the blanket over his frame. Though the mech was still online, Jazz kept his pedsteps quiet as he took the crate of energon into the Praxian’s small kitchen. He filled the dispenser with the different grades and additives he had found, and put all the goodies he had bought into the canister he had found on display at the Megastore. It could not have taken him long to put it all away, and to break down the crate, but when he returned to Prowl’s livingroom, he found the tactician was in recharge, he could tell by the mech’s slow and even ventilations. The Praxian had only haphazardly tossed the blanket over himself. Jazz paused long enough to cover Prowl with it properly, and showed himself out.


	17. Side Kick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be forewarned I have a nutty weekend a head so I might be late for Sat or Sun's ficlets. Hopefully not. But alchemy takes some attention.

Prowl stepped out from under the solvent spray as the last of the matte black paint washed down the rain. The droplets on his doorwings caught the light and he glanced at his Enforcer decals, and he felt like himself again. These emblems brokered him a token’s more respect from the general population, but not terribly much. This was, after all Polihex, not Praxus and his decals gave him no authority here. But then, the Praxian was supposed to be on a holiday. He _was_ on a holiday, his honeymoon in fact. If anyone had been asked who might be caught working on their holiday, everyone would have said him, but no it had been Jazz who had gotten a metaphorical scraplet under his helmet, so Prowl had found himself paint from helm to ped in a deep black paint as Jazz revived an old alias.

 

What he did for love of that mech. Prowl shook his helm as he dried his frame. Before Jazz he would have been insulted if someone had suggested he would ever play vigilante, but the saboteur had both a positive and a devious influence on him, in all the best ways. Prior to his time in the Autobots, Jazz had been both vigilante and hired... talent in Polihex. Most of his vigilante work had been in and around the Dead End, where he had robbed or terrorized those that would abuse the poorest of the Polihexian population. When Straxus had sided with the Decepticons, Jazz had left Polihex behind, though not without considerable guilt, and had enlisted in the Autobots. This was his first trip home, now that the war and the worst of the rebuilding was over. They had been bonded for vorns, but they had never taken a holiday, in the midst of war it had not been a good idea.

 

Polihex was slowly recovering its old identity as a centre of arts and culture. But there was still grinding poverty, and lingering anger. Though most Polihexians and immigrant mechanisms were working together to improve their lot, others saw amble opportunity to make their own gains at the expense of others. When Jazz had seen the corruption amongst the officials meant to be helping the surviving Empties within the Dead End he had been fragged right off. It had not taken much convincing to get the Praxian painted up in black, and Jazz in Meister’s old silver paint, optics masked with a dark red visor. And just as he had in vorns passed, the saboteur liberated the ill gotten shanix from the coffers of those greedy officials, and they had spent the rest of the dark-cycle dividing and dispensing the credits amongst the ramshackle homes within the Dead End’s borders. They had tossed the last of the shanix from the roof tops as the sun was rising, before disappearing down one of Jazz’s old bolt holes.

 

Certain he had gotten every last fleck of telling paint from his frame, Prowl joined his mate. Jazz was already back in his familiar white and black with accents of blue. He had dozens of colour schemes saved in his frame’s memories, vital for his espionage work, the tactician had never been bothered to change his style back and forth, a temporary coat of paint had been his only option. The sight of his Conjunx Endura still had the ability to make Prowl’s spark skip. Some mega-cycles he still wondered how he of all mechanisms had captured the breathtaking Polihexian’s optics, let alone kept them for so long.

 

“We will not be able to leave the hotel for the remainder of our holiday,” Prowl said as he joined Jazz on the couch. “Your frame is not remarkable here, mine is.”

 

“Not to worry, love,” Jazz replied, and he dragged Prowl in for a heated kiss. “I check. There are a couple others in town, ‘n we got a solid alibi.”

 

“Do we?” The Praxian asked.

 

“We ‘faced all dark-cycle long,” the saboteur purred against his taller mate’s long neck, leaving a trail of kisses and love bites as he did. “Neighbours heard plenty.”

 

“Jazz!” Prowl admonished, his faceplates growing hot, though not strictly from embarrassment.

 

“From my recordings, they took it as a challenge,” Jazz said, and his visor flashed brightly. “Now how about we really make some sweet, sweet love.”

 

“You are ridiculous,” the tactician rumbled, but he climbed onto the other’s lab, and rocked their panels together.

 

“’N you are gorgeous,” the Polihexian grinned.

 

They reached for a few joors after the interfaced, coming online wrapped together as they so often did. Prowl could no longer recharge well on his own. The heat and wait of his mate in the berth and against him was the most soothing of blankets. While they were still curled up together, Jazz took his tablet from his subspace and brought up the local new’s station. There was a report on their “misdeeds” cycling on the imager. Bemused, the Polihexian turned up the volume, and nuzzled Prowl’s neck.

 

“No trace of Meister has been found, though Enforcers are investigating,” the reporter said. “How the mystery mech was able to enter the councillor’s habsuite and make off with the stolen credits. Officials with the Enforcers have said they do not at this time plan to try and recover the stolen shanix, given it was stolen from funds meant to provide for the Dead End’s residence in the first place.”

 

“In related news,” another report said. “The Dead End is bursting with excitement over the return of their folk here, and his shocking new sidekick, the Praxian.”

 

“I would have expected a more creative moniker from this lot,” Prowl scoffed.

 

“Mm, they must o’ been struck dumb by yer beauty,” Jazz replied.

 

“Sap!” the Praxian laughed.


	18. Circus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavy breathing... I'm not late!

Jazz twisted in the air as he caught the trapeze. Cheers and applause roared below him, and he grinned like a madmech. It had been a vorn since he had last performed in the centre ring. Life had taken him away from the circus, away to serve a higher cause. Now that higher cause had disillusioned him a little, and he had followed his peds back home. They were performing in the Crystal City right now, in a few orns it would be Iacon, then Tyger Pax. The circus followed the seasons, spending the what was frigus (winter) in the north, touring in the warm south. A quartex a stellar-cycle, in early saltus (spring), they would they took a break from performing and visited kin in Polihex. It was the height of the calor (summer) season, almost a stellar-cycle from the next break. This fine by Jazz. All the mechanisms he wanted to see where here. Ori, Gen and Geni, and Ric.

 

The audience stood and roared with excitement when he landed effortless on his peds in the centre ring to take his bows. Performing on the trapeze was a rush he had always enjoyed, whether performing alone or with Ric. He had forgotten how much he loved this, probably as a defence to keep him from running back sooner, but now he was home and he could safely embrace his love of this life. Origin met him at the curtain, and handed him a towel. Apart from his servos, his plating was down right shining with a thick layer of wax. Following his origin away from the roar of the audience, Jazz rubbed the towel against his plating, getting the worst of the wax off.

 

“Ya looked beautiful, sweetlin’,” Punch said. “Like ya never left.”

 

“Might not have been trapeze, but I’ve had use for the moves,” Jazz replied. “Really is good to be home.”

 

“It’s good to have ya home,” his originator said. “Yer genitors ‘n me are up next. Think ya could do me a favour?”

 

“Sure,” the daredevil replied. “What do ya need.”

 

“Can you take these cubes to the fortune teller in the plaza?” Punch asked. “'Bout time for his break.”

 

“Sure thing, Ori,” Jazz said.

 

He took the stack of cube, two full size and one sparkling sized, and slipped out the side of the main tent. The plaza was brimming with mechanisms, some performers engaging with the crowds, others were customers lined up to buy tickets for any number of performances, games, fuel or... the fortune teller. Jazz had not met this mech yet, he was a new member of the tour. As the trapeze artist walked a looped around the outside of edge of the plaza, he saw a young Praxian selling energon goodies to the mechanisms lined up to see the fortune teller. That was new. Sparklings and younglings were common amongst the troop of course, circus folk were very happy to procreate, thank you, but there had never been a Praxian member of the troop, let alone a sparkling. Curiosity peaked, Jazz slipped around to the back of the fortune teller’s tent and waited for the mystery mech’s break. A bell sounded, and the Praxian sparkling came whipping around to the back.

 

“Hi!” The blue mechling exclaimed.

 

“Hi,” Jazz replied. “Got a feelin’ this cube here’s for you.”

 

“Come in!” The sparkling said. “Orgin! Someone brought fuel.”

 

“Jazz,” the Polihexian said, as he followed the mechling in. “My origin Punch sent me.”

 

“Please give Punch my thanks,” the fortune teller replied as he stepped from beyond the shimmering mesh. He was Praxian, as Jazz had guessed based on the mechling’s arrival. “He has been especially courteous.”

 

“That’s my origin,” Jazz said. “I didn’t get ya designation.”

 

“Prowl, my mechling Smokescreen,” the tall Praxian replied. There was a sharp cry from beyond the tent. A nanoklik later the flaps opened and Artfire, Ricochet mate appeared holding a little newling, kicking and fussing with considerable temper.

 

“I think he’s wantin’ his o’gin,” the strongmech declared. “Jazz! Missed your first show back. Good to see ya.”

 

“Thanks, ‘Fire,” the Polihexian said.

 

The fortune teller took the wailing bitlet and settled on the low bench as he drew a fuel line from low on his chassis and offered it to his newling who stopped his fuss and sucked greedily at his origin’s line. Artfire made his exit and Jazz offered the nursing origin the cube Punch had sent with him. He gave the sparkling sized one to the mechling in question as he hopped onto the bench next to his origin. That left Jazz with an extra cube.

 

“Don’t suppose someone’s comin’ for this?” He asked.

 

“I suspect Punch intended that for you,” Prowl replied. “Please sit. We do not mind the company, do we, Smokescreen?”

 

“Nope!” The mechling said.

 

“Thanks,” the trapeze artist said. “Ya ain’t been with the company long, I guess. Or I figure Ori would o’ written bought ya.”

 

“We joined at the beginning of the new season,” the Praxian explained. “From one of the camps outside the Ruins. Your originator is the one that brought us on.”

 

“Based on the line up, I think the ringmasters got cause to complain,” Jazz replied. “’N since they’re my ‘genitors, they wouldn’t o’ dared anyways.”

 

“Everyone has been very welcoming,” Prowl said. “Your kin have been excited for your return.”

 

“’M excited to be back,” the Polihexian replied. “Bet ya wanna relax wit yer bitlets. Thanks for the company, Prowl. Good to meet ya.”

 

“You as well,” the fortune teller said. “Smokescreen?”

 

“Thanks for the energon!” The mechling cheered.

 

“Ya welcome,” Jazz said.

 

He left the Praxian family to fuel and rest before the next round of fortunes. The circus had always had always had a fortune teller on staff. They were some of the best draws, and almost always tricksters and con artists. If Punch had recruited Prowl, then there must have been something about him, or about his trick that the showmech liked. Circuses were about magic and mystery and cons were apart of their fabric. Punch’s magic act was a total con, but mechanisms lined up for joors to watch it, a good fortune teller had the same draw. It was the draw that mattered, the shanix that filled their coffers. Rumbler and Sprocket, the ringmasters and his progenitors had only one simple rule when it came to the games, and the shows that operated around their circus, tricks were acceptable, and even expected but rigged games and thefts were absolutely banned. Though the general population of the cities they visited waited all stellar-cycle for the circus to come on their annual tour, the law of the land was often not as enthused, and should the circus draw the ire of the Enforcers and Justices, they might not have a tour the next mega-cycle, and that would be a disaster for the couple of hundred mechanisms attached to the troop.

 

There was something about the new fortune teller, something more than the exotic frame that intrigued Jazz. That bitlet would have emerged after the cataclysm that had destroyed Praxus, so the progenitor could not have died there, so where was he now? Prior to the destruction of his city, Prowl had either belonged to the upper caste, or he had worked closesly with them, his accent was spot on. Accents could be learned, and a fortune teller was expected to have a shtick but stoic grace with which the Praxian carrier spoke more to a line in high society versus a life on the stage. So the question then had to be, how did he end of playing fortune teller in the circus?


	19. Secret Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl is not what he seems, but it's not like he's going to go out and tell anyone. Continuation from Circus.

Prior to the fall destruction of Praxus, Prowl had never lived in lose quarters with anyone. Smokescreen’s progenitor would come to his berth from time to time, but they lived largely separate lives. He had been happy with the arrangement, as had Polaris. They had be arranged to be bonded before Prowl had even emerged, they had been raised with the knowledge that this would be done when they came of age, neither had argued when that time had come. But they had not fallen into anything like love as they had interacted through sparkling and younglinghood, in fact Polaris had loved someone else. It had been his wish that they keep separate wings, his unwanted mate had acquiesced without argument. In fact, Prowl’s only condition had been that he not flaunt the affair, Polaris had mostly complied.

 

They had begotten Smokescreen because it had been expected, even demanded. Polaris had never bonded at all to his heir, had not visited Prowl’s wing more often. It had been left to the mechling’s originator to education him, under his grand-procreators’ supervision, naturally. Prowl had not had any particular influence on his in-laws, but he had had functioning audials, and freedom to move and he had learned of Praxus’ doom before it had come. Praxus had been at war with the Kaonite alliance for vorns. In the last two vorns before the city-state’s demise, Kaon had laid a siege on Praxus. Their resources had been such that for two vorns the siege had barely been felt for the better part of those two vorns. This had been a mistake. Had any kind of rationing been done, the city-state would have been in no dire distress for vorns longer, but the king and consort had been refused to consider these measures. Prowl had had not option but the sit back with his creation and watch the danger rise and rise. As Praxus’ resources had begun to run low, Kaon had increased pressure. Crosscut had grumbled that they would unleash the Fist of Prima if Iacon and the Crystal City did not come to relieve the siege by the end of the orn. In that instant, the originator had known his framekin were damned.

 

Had he had any influence, on anyone, Prowl might have been to convince the ruling King and Consort of the folly they were set to unleashed. For the Fist’s destructive power to rend only its desired target, a great range was required. But the King did not intend to aim his weapon, the design found buried in the archive, no he intended to aim it at the forces laying siege at his borders. Fair, the design had not come with instructions, but if Crosscut had only looked at the histories... His son-in-law had warned his servants to take flight through the ancient sewers, the only way remaining out of Praxus. Some had gone, with their families and neighbours, other’s had scoffed. Prowl, they had whispered to each other, was prone to paranoia and delusions.

 

“ _You do not know any of this will happen,” Polaris argued._

 

“ _I do,” Prowl countered. “It has happened every time the Fist of Prima has been unleashed. None before have been reckless enough to deploy it at their own border. Praxus will be obliterated. Those that remain will need a king since theirs is set to die. That will be you.”_

 

“ _I am not leaving Praxus!” His mate had replied._

 

“ _If I am wrong, you will return, and nothing changes,” the other Praxian argued. “I am not wrong. I am leaving in a joor withe Smokescreen. My creation will not die for your procreators’ arrogance. If you are so certain I am paranoid you may stay and die like the other sheepacron.”_

 

Polaris had followed, as Prowl had known he would. Praxus had been destroyed, the slaughter greater than he had even imagined. There had been so few survivors, so precious few, and those only along the western most borders. He had thought there would be need of a king, until he had left the sewers and since the utter destruction Crosscut had brought down on his own people. True, the besiegers had fallen as well, but there had been mere thousands of them, the population of Praxus had been many times more. Given the few scattered survivors, Polaris had never stood up and taken leadership over the surviving Praxian. Instead he had followed Prowl from one camp to another. This had continued for a few vorns until the dark-cycle where Polaris came to his mate’s berth. In the light-cycle that had followed after he had looked down at Prowl, and then over to the cot where Smokescreen still recharged.

 

“ _It shouldn’t have been you. It shouldn’t have been him.”_

 

That had been the moment when Prowl had learned that his mate had created with his lover. It had struck him harder than he had ever thought it could, and it had enraged him that Polaris had dared to say he wished Smokescreen had died. This had unleashed all of the pent up hurt and anger that had built in Prowl over the entire course of his life. He ordered Polaris out. Not just out of the tent but out of his life, out of his sight. The single thing that Prowl regretted saying was the truth. Polaris could have saved his second family, he could have saved them all but he had left them, because a chance that Prowl might have been wrong and Polaris following him for nothing would have made him look like a fool should anyone know was a greater risk than the risk of his lover and creations dying by Crosscut’s servo.

 

Polaris had gone. Prowl had not followed. His greyed frame was found joors later, and his mate would live with guilt for his part for the rest of his life. It had been the truth, the heir of Praxus had been a strutless coward his entire life, but it had not been kind to speak it. But then, it had been cruel to tell Prowl to his face that he wished he and his creation had died instead of his second, preferred family. Prior to those glyphs, Prowl had only disliked the mech, even with his death the prince’s consort loathed his memory. When he had discovered the mech with that hating spark had kindled him with that last interface, Prowl had cried bitter tears. Smokescreen did not remember him, and Bluestreak of course would not, and Prowl made no attempt for his creations to know their progenitor’s memory. In fact, neither did not know they had been sired by the hereditary prince of Praxus. That was for the best. Though he had been unable forget the manners that had been beaten into him by his own procreators, Prowl had encouraged Smokescreen to speak with the same accents as those around him, and his mechling had never questioned it or him.

 

He had entered work as a fortune teller by chance. In the camp before the one Punch had found them in, Prowl had told a servus-frame what was likely to happen if he did as he had planned. When that very thing had come about, other servus-frames had come for his counsel, followed by guards. When supplies in that camp had become scarce, Prowl and Smokescreen had survived thanks to the shanix mechanisms gave him to tell their fortunes as one mech had said, and the originator had decided to embrace the function, even after he had left for a camp closer to the Crystal City. Life in camps was hard, and unstable, and he had hoped desperately to give Smokescreen more. When Punch had offered him stable employment, if an itinerant life, the choice had been easily.

 

Smokescreen adored it, though Prowl found the constantly shuffle and bustle grating at times. This was why he lived in the tent he worked from, instead of in a tent in the staff corner of the circus. There was less security, but at least for now he took the risk. Punch, who seemed to have taken on the role of grand-creator for the mechlings, was determined that he take a tent in their corner, next to the one he shared with his mates, and first one son and now another had his. It would have been safer, but kind as they are, and as fond as he had become of Punch, and as helpful as his son-in-law Artfire was with Bluestreak, they were a loud and lively family. Just fuelling with them could be an ordeal, too much of one to subject himself to on a permanent bases.

 

“Origin! I got Blue!” Smokescreen called as he ran into the back of the tent. Prowl secured the front flap, and stepped through the delicate curtains. As he did he found not just Smokescreen holding his brother as securely as he could at his age, he saw Punch’s newling returned creation, Jazz.

 

“Ori sent me o’er wit yer fuel, again,” the trapeze artist exclaimed, showing the Praxian his stack of cubes. Like every other time Punch had sent him over. As resistant as Prowl was to the magician’s attempts at matchmaking, Jazz was better company they he might have expected. He told Smokescreen wild stories of his adventures all over the world, and Prowl thought his mechlings was at least half way in love with him.

 

“You are welcome to join us,” Prowl said, and he took Bluestreak from Smokescreen.

 

“Ric needed my help setting up his act,” Jazz replied, as he handed out the fuel he had brought with him. “Next time. Make sure yer ori rests a bit before the next wave.”

 

“I will!” The sparkling promised. Oh yes, Smokescreen was definitely in love with Jazz.

 

“I hope I can get away long enough to see it,” the fortune teller said. “They have been working on it for quartexes.”

 

“I’ll steal ya all away when it starts,” the Polihexian replied. “See ya in a couple of joors.”

 

He should not have felt disappointed or excited. The mech was being courteous of him, under not insignificant pressure from his originator. Beyond that, Prowl did not want his or anyone else’s attention. His mechlings were all he needed, they were enough. Bluestreak latched onto his fuel line, his small servos curled tightly around it as he drank his fill. Prowl was loathe to leave him in the care of others, so often Artfire, while he met with customers. But unlike in the camps, he had not even the smallest bit of history on any of his customers, and he did not feel safe having Bluestreak at his side when he was meeting with strange mechanisms.

 

Prowl only had a split nanoklik’s warning as someone came terror through his tent, knocking his table and chairs aside and reaching through the curtains. The Praxian dove out of the way, falling hard on his hip as he shielded Bluestreak. Losing his latch and grip on the fuel line, the bitlet let out an angry wail. Smokescreen screamed almost in unison with his newling brother as a strange mech pushed through the curtain, framing heaving as his vents cycled hard. His optics looked crazed with anger. He locked those crazed optics on Prowl, and cursed viciously. Though he had served a hundred or more customers since joining with the circus, the fortune teller never forgot a face, and he was certain he had never seen this mech. Fearing for himself and his creations, Prowl scrambled across the floor at the same time he reached for Smokescreen.

 

“Told him to leave me did you?” The mech snarled and he reached for Prowl. Terror did not make the Praxian stupid or strutless, he aimed a hard kick at the intruder’s face. Though he had not seen this mech before, now he knew who he was. There was no question he would kill Prowl if he did not get away. In his anger, the mech did not even see the bitlet in the fortune teller’s arms, or the mechling at his servo, or at least he did not care.

 

“Run, Smokescreen!” Prowl ordered.

 

Terrified as he might have been, his mechling obey, running out the back of the tent, screaming as he did. As his attacker stumbled back, Prowl rose, and moved to follow. A larger servo caught the collar of his chassis, and the Praxian fought viciously to get away, striking backwards with his free servo. The servo released him, at the same time as it shoved him. Prowl stumbled forward, he reached out an arm as he held Bluestreak tight as he flared his doorwings back in a desperate attempt to keep his balance. Miraculously, he kept his peds, and he reached the tent flaps, but the mech was at his back. He whipped around to face his attacker, and in the next instant jerked with shock and fear as servos grabbed his shoulders.

 

“Y’a’ight?” Jazz asked into his audial.

 

“We are,” Prowl confirmed. The trapeze artist released his shoulders and launched himself at Prowl’s attacker. He was immediately afraid for Jazz’s safety, his foe was a helm or more taller, and considerably broader. None of this seemed to matter because the Polihexian had the mech pinned on his face in a flurry of brutal strikes.

 

“Ya worthless piece of scrap,” the trapeze artist snarled as he pulled the pinned mech’s arm back. “Attackin’ a mech wit a bitlet in his arms!”

 

“Please be careful,” the Praxian said, his voice was a harsh rasp. He held Bluestreak to his chassis and he struggled to sooth his bitlet.

 

“Got it handled,” Jazz assured him.

 

“Jazz? Prowl?” Ricochet called as he reached he tent. Numbly, Prowl stepped to the side so he was not barrelled over as the trapeze artist’s twin burst into the tent.

 

“Got some cord, Ric?” The monochrone twin asked.

 

“Gotcha covered,” His brother said. Together they hogtied Prowl’s attacker. The mech struggled as he was pulled up.

 

“Just gimme a reason,” Jazz warned. Circus entertainers that also served as security burst through the tent the next klik, and the Polihexian Twins ceded the mech to them.

 

“Thank you,” Prowl said, releasing a vent he had not known he was holding. Bluestreak kicked in his arms, his angry wails growing louder now that the excitement was over. He needed to fuel, but his originator was too shaken to right his bench, and settle.

 

“Why don’t ya come back wit us?” The trapeze artist said. He rubbed Prowl’s back in soothing circles. “’Fire’s got Smokey. We can whined down in the boss’ tent.”

 

“They... Ricochet... you have your show,” the Praxian said.

 

“In a couple o’ joors,” Ricochet replied. “’N we can just do the old act. Everythin’ll be fine.”

 

Bluestreak needed to fuel, and Prowl needed to hug Smokescreen, so he let Jazz lead him out of the tent. He felt mildly guilty for the mechanisms that had been waiting in the line, but he could not hope to fake anyone’s fortunes, not when his processor was so out of order. They had not gotten far when Punch, Rumbler and Sprocket appeared. The rage in Punch’s expression softened and he ran the remaining distance towards them. When he reached them, the magician gave Prowl and Bluestreak a close look over and the Praxian felt a wavy of gratitude flicker through the remaining shock and fear. These mechanisms cared about him, and his bitlets. His family mattered to them.

 

“Ya take’em to our tent,” Punch ordered. “We’ll take care o’ the crowds. Couplea them came into the main stage ‘n shrieked ‘bout someone was murderin’ the fortune teller. We were expectin’ the worst.”

 

“He might have,” Prowl said, and saying it out loud was horrifying. “His Conjunx Endura saw me yester-cycle. I don’t him that mech would kill him if he stayed. He would have. He might have.”

 

“We’ll get Enforcers to check,” Rumbler replied. “They’re meetin’ security at the gates.”

 

“I am sorry for disrupting the show,” the fortune teller said.

 

“Ya didn’t interrupt nothin’,” Sprocket scoffed. “’M I right? I know ‘m right.”

 

“We’ll do a show in the plaza, ‘n everyone’ll forget this slag,” the fiery Polihexian declared. “Stay wit’em Jazz.”

 

“Ya can count on it,” Jazz promised.

 

Smokescreen lunged at his legs and clung to him as soon as Prowl arrived at the circus boss’ tent. The originator dropped to his knees and hugged his mechling to his side, crooning low. Fuelling Bluestreak could not wait, and so Prowl climbed to his peds and let his first emerged to the low, pillow covered lounge along the back wall of the tent. As soon as he was seated, Smokescreen was moulded into his side, face buried against his chassis, vents hiccuping as he sobbed. Prowl crooned to both mechlings as he offer Bluestreak the line again. So upset was the bitlet, it was a struggle to convince the him to latch, but eventually Bluestreak did latch and he sucked quickly, just the wrong side of painful, instinctively trying to drain what fuel he could in case the line was ripped away from him again. But the longer he sucked, the more the newling settled, and eventually he nursed himself into recharge. His older brother was not so easily calmed. Instead Smokescreen remained glued to their originator, frame shivering long after the sobs tapered off. Jazz came over with a blanket, and draped it over the mechling, rubbing Smokescreen’s back as he knelt at their peds.

 

“We ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to your ori, Smokey,” the trapeze artist promised. “Ya did so good comin’ for help. ‘Specially since ya were so scare. Ya did so good, bravespark.”

 

“Why did he wanna hurt my origin?” Smokescreen asked, turning his helm away from Prowl’s chassis. “He swore, and swore but he didn’t say anything.”

 

“His mate was one of the customer’s the last mega-cycle.” Prowl explained, cuddling his eldest creation. “He blames me for the mech wanting to leave, instead of his own temper.”

 

“Typical bully,” Jazz interjected. “Neither o’ ya got to drink yer energon, ‘m gonna grab some from the chest. No arguments, Prowl... Ori would have my helm if I didn’t fuel ya.”

 

Prowl did not argue, Punch would be furious with Jazz if he did not share fuel with him and Smokescreen, that did not mean that the Praxian did not feel guilty for taking it. But his fuel levels were low, even lower now that Bluestreak had had his fill, and even though his tank felt unsteady, he had to do this little bit of self-care or he would leave his mechlings vulnerable. He lived for them. Every drop of fuel he drank, and decision that he made was for them. Turning and facing that mech had been a calculated decision, Prowl had been certain he would shoot him in the back, or something, if he ran from the tent, he had hoped seeing and hearing Bluestreak screaming would give him some hesitation. Looking back, already the fortune teller was not so sure. It had been lucky that Jazz had been so close.

 

“Here ya go,” the Polihexian said as he returned with the cubes. “Mind if I sit wit ya?”

 

“No, please do,” the fortune teller replied. “Thank you for coming. Thank you.”

 

When Punch, and the others returned after their impromptu show, Jazz still remained. The magician and third partner in the circus’ management laid down the law. Prowl would have a tent in his family’s corner. Artfire and Ricochet were already setting it up. There was no way anyone would get any rest with the Praxian family alone in that tent. In his frenzy the slagtard had done some damage, nothing that could not be righted easily, but it had been decided that Prowl would not be returning to work until the next orn. He and his creations would the next mega-cycles off to recuperate. Though the fortune teller had been prepared to argue, Jazz had shaken his helm, and Prowl had given up without a fight. It was fair enough, his processor was still reliving those terrifying kliks, as it would probably do for a least the next mega-cycle.

 

He and his creations stayed in the bossmechs’ tents, being fussed over and... loved until Ricochet and Artfire had gotten the new tent ready. Prowl felt somewhat undeserving for all the support, but he was too selfish to refuse it. These mechanisms loved his bitlets, it was plain and clear by the way they fawned over Smokescreen and Bluestreak. At the same time as Prowl was grateful, he was angry, though not at them. Polaris had not bothered to know Smokescreen, had wished him dead, but these mechansism loved the bitlets only knowing them for a couple of quartexes. They, the Praxian realized a bit belatedly, even loved him. This was the thought he was cycling through as he sat outside his new tent. Inside, his mechlings recharged. Prowl should have been in recharge himself but his processor would not settle so he sat outside the tent, not wanting his restlessness to disturb his bitlets.

 

“Can’t ‘charge?” Jazz asked as he stepped from his own tent.

 

“No,” Prowl confessed.

 

“Fair,” the trapeze artist said. “Mind if I sit wit ya.”

 

“If you wish to,” the Praxian replied. “Were you having trouble recharging as well?”

 

“Yeah,” Jazz replied. “Glad the bitlets ‘n ya came out okay.”

 

“If you had not been as quick, Bluestreak and I might not have been,” Prowl said. “He was not going to back down.”

 

“Ya couldn’t o’ seen this comin’,” the Polihexian said. “I mean, I know yer bit, but ya couldn’t o’ known.”

 

“I did consider the possibility,” the fortune teller replied. “I did not believe the probability was high enough to focus any preparations. I miscalculated.”

 

“Miscalculated,” Jazz echoed. “Are ya actually psychic then?”

 

“No,” Prowl said. The skepticism in the mech’s voice did not offend him. “I make educated guesses. My customers talk about their questions before I give any answers. Make no mistake, I keep my answer vague and open ended for the most part. How mechanisms talk about their problems, to me and to each other in the line gives me a good bases to make a judgment. Smokescreen is very helpful in providing me with the chatter from within the line.”

 

“Is that what he’s doin’?” The trapeze artist asked. “Clever. Real clever.”

 

“Most of the time my customers know the answer, or the answers they just want a push,” the Praxian said. “I give it to them, based on my calculations.”

 

“Considerin’ the lines, I think yer calculations are on point,” Jazz replied. “How’d ya end up gettin’:? into this business.”

 

“We were in a camp between the Ruins and the Crystal City,” Prowl explained. “I gave advice to a servus-frame visiting. He did not follow my advice, but I proved to be correct. He dubbed me psychic and glyph spread. I had only just learned I was carrying Bluestreak. It was already difficult to ensure Smokescreen had the fuel he needed on my own. As ridiculous as it was, it paid better than any manual labour I could still perform.”

 

“Where was their ‘genitor?” The Polihexian asked.

 

“Dead,” the fortune teller said. “We had an arranged bonding. He never showed Smokescreen the least bit of interest. Glyph floated about of the Fist of Prima, and the plan to aim it at the besiegers. I knew it meant death for Praxus. The capital, at least, I thought. I took Smokescreen and ran. I gave my mate the choice. He came. He had a second family, a family he loved that I did not know about. He did not bring them. They died, everyone died that remained. I did not learn of this family of his until he said to me he wished that it had been Smokescreen and I who had died. I hated him then, I raged at him. He killed himself... I have never been able to grieve him. He was not mine to grieve.”

 

“’M sorry,” Jazz said. “Slagtard didn’t deserve ya, didn’t deserve Smokey or the bitlet.”

 

“Your family has loved them, their own progenitor did not,” Prowl replied.

 

“They’re easy to love,” the saboteur said. “Don’t question the why’s, Prowl. Yer part o’ the family now, ya were the moment my ori decided to bring ya on. He won’t have it any other way.”


	20. Coffe Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follow up from Enemies, and Neighbours.

“Didn’t expect to find ya here,” Jazz said. The shop was the closest to their apartment block, so it was not exactly unbelievable to find his neighbour here. But given the mech’s bitlet’s condition, Prowl had not left his habsuite, so far as Jazz knew, for orns.

 

“Bluestreak’s counsellor which for a session without me,” Prowl replied, as he put the lid on his pressed crystal energon. “I thought I would try and work here... I do not wish to go too far.”

 

“That looks weak for ya,” the Polihexian noted. His own fuel was a rich turquoise, the other’s was a dark navy. He had seen the slag Prowl drank on base, it was pitch black. No one ever touched the Praxian’s brew.

 

“It is,” the tactician confirmed. “But it is the strongest they brew. I ran out of crystals... a couple of mega-cycles ago. At least it is something.”

 

“I’ll pick ya up what ya need,” Jazz said.

 

“No!” Prowl refused, his doorwings jerked back. “You have done enough.”

 

“Mech, ya need help, I live next door, makes sense for me to lend a servo,” the saboteur replied. “Gimme a list o’ what ya need.”

 

“Would you like to sit?” the Praxian asked, gesturing to an open table.

 

“Sure,” Jazz said. “Surpised yer up ‘n runnin’ wit’out yer fix. Not like y’re chargin’. No offense, Prowl but ya look like slag.”

 

“I feel like it,” Prowl confessed. “Bluestreak’s terrors have faded for now. He is experiencing a numbing stage... I am hyper aware.”

 

“So ya still not rechargin’,” the Polihexian concluded. “Have ya thought ‘bout seein’ Ratchet.”

 

“He has come to see me,” the tactician said. “But I cannot take sedatives, or else I risk recharging through a crisis. I have not recharged more than a couple of joors every few mega-cycle since the slaughter. I will survive.”

 

“Take care o’ yerself,” Jazz warned.

 

“Ratchet said something along those lines,” Prowl sighed.

 

Prowl was probably stubborn enough to keep himself on his peds. If any mech could survive on stubbornness alone it was the SIC. Jazz had begrudgingly found a new respect for the tactician, he had always known the mech was smart, and dedicated, but he had never imagined him to be this strong. None of this meant that Prowl was not a retentive aft, it just made Jazz appreciate the depth of the mech’s resilience. The Autobots needed the depth, they could not have their commanders buckling under the weight and length of the war. It could well be the Praxian was more than a shrewd administrator. In fact, this was already a certainty.

 

“If any mech can survive on stubborn alone, it’s you,” the saboteur said. “But he’s seein’ ya lookin’ like this, feelin’ it’s his fault. He might need ya to be strong, but mostly he just needs ya.”

The tactician look down at his empty cup, the weight of his creation’s struggle, his losses, and straight up exhaustion making his doorwings slump. Jazz waved down the barista gathering abandoned cups and ordered refills. While the fuel was no replacement for recharge, it was a stop gap. From what he had seen of Prowl on base, the mech could drink anywhere from two to six cups though the mega-cycle, and that was the dark sludge he brewed himself. No one drank the tactician’s crystal energon, no one dared. Not just because it made Prowl a few degrees less frosty, but because the concentration was such it would send most mechanisms into spark palpitations, only Ratchet seemed to tolerate it. But then, that almost made sense those to mechs worked the most gruelling joors of all the Autobots, they would need the condensed energy to keep from flagging.

 

“He needs Polaris,” Prowl said, expression tight.

 

“His progenitor?” Jazz asked. The Praxian nodded. “Were ya together a long time?”

 

“Fifty vorns,” the tactician replied. “He was a lawyer, I was an Enforcer, our paths met a few times before we became involved. His procreators were deeply involved in his life, I had none. I did not question it, I thought it was normal. They became involved with my life, nudging me carefully in the direction they wanted. It took vorns before I understood how much they were interfering and how unpleasant I found it. They were too involved. I finally told Polaris I needed reasonable boundaries. A new encryption on the door so they could not come and go as they wanted. He refused. I refused to live that way any longer. I left.”

 

“That sucks slag,” the Polihexian said. “Me ‘n mine we’re close, but fraggers are gonna knock first. You didn’t take the bitlet?”

 

“I took him,” Prowl said. “The courts ruled in Polaris’ favour for primary custody. He had support. I did not. My prospects in the Enforcers shrank, Bishop was a former Praefectus Vigilum, Crosscut a member of the ruling party. I was not willing to do nothing. I joined the Autobots. I left Praxus. I returned every orn, on the ornend in the beginning. As Bluestreak got older, he became too busy. As my position changed, it became harder to return. In the last stellar-cycle it was an ordeal just to get Bluestreak on the comms.”

 

“Think his ‘genitor had somethin’ to do with it?” Jazz asked.

 

“His grand-procreators more likely,” the Praxian replied. “Polaris let his procreators decide how Bluestreak would be raised. At the beginning of the stellar-cycle I entered arbitration relating to custody and alienation of affection. We never saw the courtroom.”

 

“’M sorry,” the saboteur said. The barista returned with their cubes. Prowl’s doorwings jerked as it was set down, like he had not been expecting it. Mech needed to rechage bad. “For everythin’. I ain’t met’m but I guarantee your bitlet needs ya. Need _ya_ o’er anyone else.”

 

“You seem oddly confident,” Prowl said.

 

“Mech, yer ex couldn’t stand up to his fraggin’ creators, he didn’t have the struts to deal wit this slag,” Jazz replied. “Ya do.”

 

“Thank you,” the tactician said. “I know we have not gotten along well.”

 

“True, don’t mean I don’t respect ya,” the Polihexian replied. “’M a wildcard ‘n ya got a stick up yer aft but between us, we get results. Since ya started buttin’ in, more o’ my ops are comin’ back wit all their parts. I ain’t dense ‘nough not to see it. Ya been good for the Bots.”

 

“You give me helmaches,” Prowl said. “But you adaptability is without question the single greatest reason you and your operations are successful.”

 

“Truce?” Jazz asked.

 

“Truce,” the Praxian said. “Thank you for the fuel.”

 

“Ya can buy next time,” the saboteur suggested. “Let me know when the bit’s havin’ these sessions ‘n we can meet here. I’ll keep ya up to date on the job, ‘n ya can take a breath.”

 

“I would be amenable to that,” Prowl replied. “Oddly enough. The session will be over shortly. I should return.”

 

“I’ll swing by wit yer groceries,” Jazz said, and when the tactician looked about to argue, he wave his digit in his face. “No arguin’. I’ll win anyway. Check out what ya need, send me a list, I’ll take care of it.”

 

He really was not predisposed to liking this mech, but Jazz thought he had begun to dislike him a lot less. The custody dispute, the distance between Prowl and his youngling would have probably contributed to his stony mood. Add in his glitch, and the Praxian would not have been keen on opening himself up to anyone, and maybe the saboteur felt a twinge of guilt for not picking up on it early. Prowl probably had not really sat down planning on revealing so much but exhaustion would have lowered his walls, Jazz was not exactly in a strong moral position by taking advantage, but he the more that he learned, the more his perception of Prowl changed, and he was curious to know what his final judgment was going to be.


	21. Childhood Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation from Summer Camp.
> 
> Short. No time for more today, I'm afraid.

Prowl’s spark was racing. Though Jazz had written him, told him he would be attending camp this stellar-cycle, things could have changed. He would not believe the other mechlings was going to be there until he really was. This was the last stellar-cycle they would attend the camp. Next stellar-cycle they would be grown, and entering their adult lives. It was the beginning of the end, and after Jazz had been unable to attend the last stellar-cycle’s camp, the Praxian was deeply afraid he would miss this one too. Of course Prowl did not fault Jazz for missing the last camp, being accepted into the music camp at the best conservatory in Cybertron was a feat, especially with a scholarship! But he had missed Jazz terribly. The fact was, he still did not love the camp, or anything about it, except for Jazz. He loved Jazz.

 

“Prowl!” The mechling in questioned jerked to his peds just in time. Jazz tackled him, twisting them in the air so it was he, and not Prowl landing on his back.

 

“Jazz!” Prowl laughed, genuinely laughed, and he tried to push himself up off of his friend, but the Polihexian held him too tight.

 

“Ya fragger ya got taller!” Jazz cursed.

 

“I have always been taller than you!” The Praxian countered. “It is hardly my fault you have not grown in height in vorns.”

 

“Shut it,” the smaller mechling laughed. “I missed ya! Much as I loved stayin’ at the conservatory, I wished ya were there.”

 

“You know I am tone deaf,” Prowl said, finally wriggled out of Jazz’s grasp. Everyone was looking... But it did not matter as much as it should have.

 

“Ya could play the cymbals,” Jazz teased. He hopped to his peds, and helped his friend up. “So, Camp Counsellor. Which cabin ya bunkin’ in?”

 

“Same one as you,” the Praxian said. “I asked. The Director saw no reason against it.”

 

Jazz’s smile made Prowl’s spark spin. He knew that he loved the mech, loved him with all his spark. Prowl had never had another crush, it had always been Jazz. But it was more important to have him for a friend, ten thousand times more important, so Prowl smiled back, and took his friend’s servo in his and led him off to their cabin to unpack. The mega-cycles ahead were going to be the best and the worst of his life. They would make the best of them, the Praxian promised himself that. At least the stellar-cycle Prowl and Jazz had some say in the activities they led. Rather than the gruelling marches that he had loathed, they hiked the trail, followed by their campers, showing them all the hidden beauty of the forest and hills.

 

They went to the lake where Prowl had learned to swim, where Jazz had taught him, and waded in the water. Between the two of them, they taught four of their campers to swim. He and Jazz told campfire stories together, so Prowl did not poor them into recharge. Before either knew it, there were only mega-cycles left before Prowl returned to Praxus, and Jazz to Polihex. If he could have frozen time, the young mech thought he would. As excited as he was to attended the Enforcer Academy, Prowl could not be so excited as he should be, not when it meant that the calor (summer) was over.

 

“Ya got in, I know ya did,” Jazz said. “Ya ain’t said anythin’ ‘bout it. Ain’t ya excited?”

 

“I am...” Prowl replied. “I just... want to enjoy the calor.”

 

“Ya nervous?” The musical mech asked. “Ya gonna commute from yer ‘creators’ place?”

 

“I am... a little nervous,” the Praxian said. “I applied for, and was approved for on campus housing. My procreators do not know. I believe my originator will resist, but they will be happy to live their lives without having to trouble themselves with me.”

 

“I got a place off campus wit some friends from last stellar-cycle,” Jazz revealed. “It’s... big enough I thought maybe you could visit... some break.”

 

“You want me to visit?” Prowl asked.

 

“I don’t wanna lose ya,” the Polihexian replied. “Wit’out the camp... I thought we could have a... grown up relationship.”

 

“Grown up?” Just as the glyphs left the would-be Enforcer’s glossa, was leaning in, and Prowl knew. He knew exactly what Jazz was after and he closed the distance. They kissed. Over the last few vorns Prowl had imagined this moment, every fantasy was erased the instant he felt Jazz’s lips on his. After a short time, they separated, smiling, giddy and shy at each other. Prowl should have felt foolish, but he felt ecstatic instead. Feelingly light and ridiculously happy he said: “You could visit me too... I could show you the Helix Garden.”

 

“It’s a date.”

 

 


	22. Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not kidding, this is drivel. But I NEEDED it.

Status, Jazz had found, in the Crystal Empire was advertised based on how many crystals, and what kinds, you used in building and decorating your home and business. The Towers, spires covered from base to tip housed the noble families. Each family had its own Tower, and they were in clear competition with each other. From this distance, the Polihexian could see two of the spires were under renovation, with old crystals being stripped from the buildings and then replaced with ones considered more precious than their predecessors. Jazz sneered at the spectacle. At least the old gems were not going to waste, piled in mounds like common trash they were pilfered under the cover of darkness to cover the homes of lesser families. It was all a garish display of excess, and while he did not approve, not in the least, Jazz was happy enough to take advantage.

 

Throughout the course of the quartex, he had slipped into each Tower and taken what treasures had suited him. More likely than not his thefts had gone unnoticed, but he had not been pilfering those lazy nobles for real score, no they had been a practice run. This dark-cycle would be the one that counted. Set apart from the other Towers, the emperor’s palace stood glittered ethereally under Cybertron’s moons. As he slipped of the walls that circled the opulent gardens, wondering what sort of crystals shown like that. They seemed to be every colour, and none. It was not under Jazz reached the Tower itself that he understood what had been used to cover it.

 

Each plate was perfectly shaped, and matched for colour with those around it. They were not carved crystals, they were scales, the Tower was covered in millions of them. He recoiled at the though. To cover an entire tower in crystal scales hundreds... hundreds of dragons would have had to be slaughtered. Jazz stroked mournfully at the scale under his servo. There had been no crystal scales in any floor of the minor towers, not even the smallest piece. The Emperor must have claimed ownership over all crystals scales, perhaps even all dragon... goods. Perhaps after he had relieved the Emperor of his treasure, he might relieve him of his life.

 

Vengeful spark settled, for now, Jazz scaled the Tower. The polished scales actually made it easier, the layering of them made convenient ped and servo holds, all the better for him. Several floors above the grand doors at the base of the spire, the thief hoped over the finely carved railing of the balcony and inched towards the door. Testing it with a single black servo, he found it was unlocked. He had expected as much, the Emperor would have thought himself immune to petty robbery. Likely, he thought his walls and his guards were plenty of defence, except there were dozens of blind spots along the walls, and once he, or any other intruder made it over, no one was looking, everyone was looking out, and away from the palace.

 

The balcony did not lead to the foul mechanism’s berthroom, but a large library. Where the outside of the palace was covered in the iridescent scales, the furnishings within the library were carved from rainbow obsidian, the floors and walls were covered in tiles of opal. Jazz paused briefly at the side of a dish sitting on an obsidian table, it was a rich, luminous blue, and carved from the scale of some poor dragon. How could you eat from a dish made of another mechanism? The thief shook his helm. But of course, dragons were not mechanisms. Scowling, Jazz slipped from the library, and made his way to the elevators and went down. Down, down below the surface of the ground, the Polihexian made his way to the basement levels where all the treasures of the emperor were held in a single vault.

 

There were no guards at the fault, and he was amused at the Emperor’s arrogance. He had listened to the nobles gossip, and had known there would be none. Unlike the nobles’ Towers, no a single servus-frame served the palace. The guards on the wall could not even enter the palace gardens. In fact, the only mechanisms allowed to be in service to the Emperor in his palace were Towers mechs from lesser houses. Obviously no one had tried to assassinate the mech any time recently, but then again, if you were not a servus-frame or a Towers mech, you could not exactly walk free in the Empire. If your servus committed a crime, it was held against you and your family. As a result, the noble families policed themselves, their families, and their servants. So far, it had worked for the emperor. Well, he was about to learn a lesson, if he lived through the dark-cycle.

 

It only took Jazz a few nanokliks to work pick the lock. This may have been the greatest treasure room he had ever broken into, but strength of it’s security was in the bottom five. He smiled, pleased with how the dark-cycle had gone so far. Still, Jazz knew traps lay all over the Tower, and there would be more in the treasure room, and it would suck slag if he tripped one getting over confident. Cautiously, he pulled open the doors, and slipped inside. Jazz was struck momentarily dumb. Crystals, crystals of every colour, size and shape filled the fault. Brilliant sculptures stood next to chests, above his helm, a chandelier almost certainly made from crystal scale lit the oppulant room. There was a settee, carved from a single giant crystal, sitting next to an end table carved from a similar gem. The cushion was embroidered with thread made of silver and gold... there was an impression... someone sat here often.

 

Jazz looked passed the settee, to find what treasure the Emperor so enjoyed watching. His spark immediately went to his throat. A beautiful cage sat in the middle of the vault, and laying inside it, on a pillow that matched the emperor’s settee, was a tiny crystal dragon, a hatchling. All other treasures forgotten, the thief approached the cage. He was only steps away when a roar had him diving back. Covered in iridescent white, and fathomless black scales, the dragon lunged at him from beyond the cage. A long chain attached to a colour at the dragon’s neck wrenched him cruelly back, though that did not deter the dragon as it snarled and snapped. The oddly small wings at his back flared out wide. Raising his servos and chirring softly, Jazz reached for the cage.

 

Woken by the fuss, the little hatchling clambered to the back of his cage, as close as he good to the elder dragon. Leash cruelly short, the dragon’s snout just barely brushed the bars. The crystal dragon’s optics fell on the hatchling, and the look of despair was all the motivation Jazz needed. Chirring and chittering, he knelt at the cage’s door and took out his lock picks. In the corner of the cage was a dish of crystal kibble. He sneered at the sight. This hatchling was too young to feed on that fuel alone, no he need his... origin. Jazz looked to the straining dragon, very literally choking himself to get even this close to the hatching, he must have been the bitlet’s origin.

 

The clock surrendered to the Polihexian’s skilled digits, and the door fell open. He knelt, arms open and called to the hatchling, but the little dragon did not come, not that he was surprised. Wedging the door open, Jazz crawled into the cage, and over to the hatchling. Terrified, the bitlet cowered and cried for his origin and the great beast snarled and strained, the collar dug painfully into his neck. Jazz crooned, both to the hatchling and to the originator dragon, and pulled the hatchling into his arms. His origin went wild, slashing at the air, digging his claws into the floor and pulling with all his might, everything he could think of to break the chain, and no doubt bite the thief in two. Tiny compared to his origin, the hatchling was a serious armful, but Jazz still managed to half drag, half carry him from the cage. Suddenly aware he was free, the hatchling tried to bolt for his origin, but the Polihexian held him firm. Just above his belly, Jazz found the spot and he pressed his digits against the delicate scales, triggering the hidden component. He stepped back as the hatchling transformed, shrinking down considerably.

 

A look of shock passed over the originator dragon’s optics and he collapsed on his side, as he watched his hatchling take his root form. Jazz lifted the Praxian sparkling into his arms and purred at the little mech. Startled by the change in his own form, the sparkling made a little peep. His originator lay on his side, neck craned, and panting heavily as the collar continued to choke him. Though he was still buried about being bitten in two, the thief thought the worst of the danger had passed and he carried the sparkling over to his originator. Kneeling at the dragon’s large head, Jazz pressed his helm against the beast’s snout. He was not bitten. Leaving the sparkling next to his originator’s helm, the Polihexian circled the dragon, following the chain back to the wall.

 

It looked like it had been physically welded into the wall, and there was nothing in Jazz’s bag of tricks that could cut it. Just beyond the chain, and the slab that must have been meant to serve as the dragon’s nest, was a machine that made him think of farmed machadron. His plating prickled with disgust. He turned back to the dragon, and gotten a good look at his hindquarters. There were deep gouges on his hips, signs of a violent attempt at mating. The idea made him dim his optics and scowl. Based on the hatchling’s age, the originator dragon was not going into season for vorns yet, the other dragon should surely have known that. But maybe he had not had a choice.

 

The whole thing was disgusting. It was not enough to keep the crystal dragon chained, but to keep his hatchling in a cage, just out of his reach, and to try and breed more in him, and milking his energon, fuel meant for his bitlet... Jazz had not encountered anything quite this hideous in all his life. Walking a wide loop around the originator dragon, just to be safe, the thief followed the chain to the dragon’s neck. To his irritation and sympathy, the collar had been welted closed, not merely latched, discoloured scales, burnt in the process stood as testament to the struggle the dragon must have put up. Jazz hoped he managed to rend a few of his captors in the process.

 

There did not appear to be any charge to the colour or chain, nothing he could see that would have trapped the dragon in his form, which meant his T-cog must have been deactivated or damaged. He walked back down the dragon’s long, powerful frame and stopped just above his belly. Jazz could feel the heat off the scales. The poor thing must have been in considerable pain. Though the Polihexian could do nothing to ease the pressure in his fuel lines, Jazz could make sure the originator was never milked again. Standing on the balls of his peds, he pressed a servo against the dragon’s underbelly. A huff of resignation was his only answer. Content that he was not going to be ripped to shreds for his troubles, Jazz searched for the right spot, and when he found it, pushed in and up.

 

He stepped back as the great beast changed, his components shifting and shrinking until it was not a dragon sitting on the treasure room floor but a monochrome Praxian. The sparkling crawled quickly over to his originator, cheeping and chirring excitedly as he climbed into his originator’s lap. Jazz smiled, as the crystal dragon, now safely disguised, lifted his creation into his arms and cuddled him against his chassis, and openly wept. It felt good, so good to have been apart of this, the thief thought no treasure could please him more. When the originator looked up again, brushing the tears from his face with his free servo, the expression on his face was gratitude.

 

“Jazz,” the thief said, gesturing to himself.

 

“Prowl,” the Praxian replied in an old accent. He stroked his creation. “Bluestreak. You... tongue?”

 

“A little,” Jazz said, grinning. An ancient precursor to Primal Vernacular was thought to be the ancestral language to all dragons. Over millenia the dialects of land, sea and sky had changed considerably, most had forgotten the old tongue. Jazz was surprised that this dragon, that Prowl spoke such an old language, and he was suddenly grateful for his ‘genitors’ hoard of books. Trying to think of the stories, and hoping his pronunciation was not too far off, he tried to speak. “Wait... safe... wait... feed?”

 

“Wait? Feed?” Prowl echoed. Jazz crouched in front of him, and touched his too hot bumper, and he bitlet.

 

“Feed,” he repeated.

 

Jazz left the newly transformed dragon to fuel his sparkling, and set his sights on the chests full of treasures. Testing the floor, he found the traps, and neatly stepped around them. There was no time to be too greedy, but it would not take much of the Emperor’s treasures to change the future of the thief’s village. Concerned that there might be a weight mechanism beneath the chests, he stole a little from each one. When he had taken all he dared, Jazz returned to the newly liberated originator and creation. To his relief, the mechling had nursed himself into recharge, and was safely magnetized to his origin’s chassis. Standing in front of the pair, Jazz offered his servos to the Praxian, and helped him stand. Prowl straightened his handsome doorwings as he stood on two peds for what was likely the first time some time.

 

“Follow,” Jazz ordered, taking the taller mech’s servo in his. He led the freed mech from the vault, and back up the same way he had come down a joor before. A joor. It was still late, but it had taken longer than the thief might have liked. Speed now was more important then ever. The bitlet stayed in blissful recharge, likely so happy to be against his origin’s plating again. Poor little thing. Jazz led Prowl out into the library, and out onto the balcony, and he pressed the mech back against the wall, though the mech recoiled, recognizing the texture of the walls, knowing exactly from where the tiles had come. Even as he flinched, Jazz pinned him, gently as he could afford. “Stay... Stay!”

 

Walking to the edge of the balcony, Jazz curled his servos over the railing and began to shift. The process was not painful, not like the reverse sometimes was, his frame elongated, his neck stretched over the side of the railing. His spark burst into its proper size and he felt free. Bringing his helm over the railing and cocking his helm to his back, the sea dragon rumbled low in his throat. Surprise did not keep the crystal dragon frozen long. Though Jazz was a good deal smaller than the crystal dragon in their comparative forms, the Praxian in root mode fit easily onto his back. As soon as he was certain Prowl had a good hold, Jazz dove over the side of the balcony. Even with the wait of mech and bitlet on his back, the sea dragon slithered quickly down the tower, across the garden, over the fence and into the wilds. When the Emperor of the Towers entered the vault for his breakfast he discovered that the greatest treasures from his collection had been stolen, and sent every courtier and guard out searching for the thief who dared abscond with his dragons, but Jazz had already taken originator and creation far from his servos.


	23. Historical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragons are totally historical.
> 
> Don't try to argue with me on this one XD

****

They went first north and then east. Jazz had covered considerable ground before it had occurred to him that the crystal dragon’s territory was bound to be in the south, close to or within Praxus. When dragons had taught themselves to transform they had learned root modes similar in style to their common neighbours. Prowl would blend in with other Praxians. His armour had a handsome pearly sheen but nothing that could be replicated by a good wax or polish. Still, the sea dragon did not know the forests and rivers of Praxus, he knew those of Iacon, of Kaon, and of the Kingdom of Torus. He knew the Rust Sea and so he headed for home.

Before Prowl and his mechling could hope to be safe, his T-cog needed to be repaired or replaced. Of course there were medics throughout Cybertron, but Jazz did not know them, and did not consider for a nanoklik trusting the crystal dragon to a stranger’s care. He had been chained, violated, mistreated in the worst of ways, not again, not under Jazz’s watch.

Prowl did not make a sound, not a single sounded as the sea dragon slithered and climbed through the forests of the Empire. Jazz would have been quicker and more comfortable swimming down any of the great rivers, but it would be precarious for his passengers and so he stuck to the land. When civilization loomed to close, the Polihexian dragon followed the map of his ancestors and found one of the caves carved by dragons the had come before. He lowered himself onto his belly at the gap in the weather worn rock. The crystal dragon climbed of his back, and waited.

“Stay,” Jazz ordered, annoyed with the great big gaps in his vocabulary... and his grammar. “Safe see I… I see safe? Feh.”

The Praxian smiled faintly and nodded. Jazz purred low in his throat, and inched into the darkness. There a deep bowl carved out of the ground, deep in the back of the cave, its presence hidden by stalagmites. Eons ago, someone had nested here, someone far larger than him. It was just the struts of a nest, but it was a good place to spend the light-cycle, safe and out of sight. Pleased with what he had found, the sea dragon poke his helm back out of the cave and whistled. Speech was... awkward in this form, and dragons naturally leaned towards body language, and simpler vocalizations. Except Prowl, a crystal dragon, a beast who would have nested in the glyphs of Praxus, knew an entirely different language. So Jazz spoke in that ancient tongue.

 

“Safe,” he said, and he led the Praxian to the bowl in the earth. “Safe, hide... uh... want... big?”

 

“Big?” Prowl asked.

 

Jazz huffed and reverted to root mode. It really was not a painful process, not with the frequency he performed this manoeuvre, but it was a funny feeling. Being in root mode was like walking around in armour just a size too small, like your spark was too big for your chamber. It was not painful, but it was not exactly comfortable. He walked over the crystal dragon, and touched him just below his chassis, above his defective T-cog, and brushed a servo against the sparkling watching him with such big and bright optics.

 

“Big?” He asked. “Safe big.”

 

“Yes, I would,” the Praxian replied. It figured, the mech spoke the old glyphs with such ease. He was probably fluent. Meanwhile, Jazz could barely put two glyphs together in sensible order.

 

Though Prowl had obviously chosen to trust him, Jazz watched his face as he took the bitlet from his arms. The hatchling made an indignant squawk, but he stopped just short of crying when the Polihexian tickled him on the belly before returning him to his proper form. Even as the bitlet transformed, Jazz lowered to the ground. Back in this more familiar shape the hatchling made a curious cheep. Gently, the sea dragon rubbed the crystal dragon’s arm, before applying the proper precious to his defective T-Cog, the larger dragon transformed, intuitively avoiding stepping on his hatchling. As soon he had completed the transformation, Prowl picked his hatchling up in his beak and lowered him into the bare nest, and followed after. He curled up around his bitlet and lowered his helm.

 

“Back,” Jazz promised. “I be back.”

 

The joors just before and after dawn were the best for fishing, and fishing was something Jazz was naturally good at. He scented the air and followed the smell of water. Keeping ever aware of his surroundings, the sea dragon slipped into the briskly moving river and followed it’s course to a deep, lake. Little waterfront tenements lined the lake, so Jazz was careful to keep below the water’s surface. It did not take long before he had eaten his fill, and caught a large m-ray to bring back to Prowl. Swimming with the big technofish in his jaws was awkward as all Pit, but the sea dragon managed it. With a hatchling in the nest, the originator should not have to worry about hunting for fuel, Jazz’s own originator had taught him this. When the hatchling was bigger, and closer to being weaned, the originator and progenitor might take turns guarding the bitlet, but at Bluestreak’s tender age, he needed access to his fuel nozzles at all time. Though he was in good shape, the crystal hatchling was a bit lean, his little belly ought to have been rounder. Now that he was not separate from his origin by that nasty cage, Bluestreak would be able to fuel all he wanted, whenever he wanted. His originator would not need to stray from this or any nest to forage, Jazz would keep him well fed.

 

He dragged the m-ray through the forest, back to that hidden cave. Jazz was well pleased with his catch, and he preened a little as he presented his catch to the crystal dragon. Prowl pricked up at the sight of the fuel and made a soft trill before accepting the m-ray and dragging it into the nest. Bluestreak sniffed at the prey but abandoned it in favour of playing with his originator’s fail fins. The sea dragon watched the scene. When dark-cycle came, they would move on, but even for one light-cycle’s rest, the nest was hard. Letting out another whistle, he whipped around and slipped out of the cave again. This time, he returned with a mouth full of chromium moss, and another, and back and forth until he had gathered enough technoflora to line the bowl of the nest.

 

Jazz left the arranging of the fluff to Prowl, he was the one using the nest, and when he returned with a final mouthful, he found the nest covered with the green and teal moss, and Prowl curled up off to one side, his tail and wings concealing the hatchling. The sea dragon put the last bit of moss down in a thinner spot, and patted it down, before laying along the edge of the nest, facing the entrance. A soft trill had him turn his helm around, over to the larger dragon. Prowl looked from him to the nest and tapped the empty corner of the nest with his tail. Purring and whistling with gratitude, Jazz carefully climbed into the nest, and curled up to recharge.

 

With the dark-cycle, they set out again. By the time the sun was rising again, they had reached the port. Along the docks, beautiful ships waited to sail across the Rust Sea. They were going to be on one. Some unscrupulous captains would take them as passengers and kill them for the treasure, or try to. Jazz did not like the idea of having to figure out how to sail a ship, and so he looked carefully over the ships, as he kept Prowl and the bitlet close, and listened to the shattered on the docks. Finally, he settled for a ship sailed by a grizzled old mech with a cygar clenched in his teeth.

 

“Ahoy,” the gruff old mech said. “I hear ya need passage to Polihex.”

 

“Not picky,” Jazz replied, and he turned to stroke Prowl’s shoulder. He knew the crystal dragon did not understand what he was saying. “Damaxus would be close ‘nough. Time to bring the bitlet home to see the family.”

 

“Looks like he’s had a rough spot,” the captain said, and he gestured to Prowl’s neck, where his protoform showed a hint of what was done to him in his other form.

 

“His ‘creators didn’t approve, tried to convince’m to take another,” the Polihexian lied smoothly. “Got creative wit how they convinced him.”

 

The captain spoke in another tongue, that sounded like crystals in the breeze. Prowl replied, voice smoother than the old mech’s rasp. Whatever answer the Praxian gave the captain was convinced, and he sold Jazz three tickets. Jazz thanked the captain for his diligence, and the grizzled mech smiled. Boarding was still joors away, and the sea dragon led Prowl back up the dock, arm in arm, to the market stalls that lined the street. Close to the docks there was an oil bar with tables on a patio, Jazz left Prowl to sit, and fuel Bluestreak as he bought tankards of fuel for the crystal dragon and himself, and joined them. Seeing how the originator sat, shielding his bitlet from view from the street, Jazz sat to Prowl’s side, rather than across, giving him another layer of security. Only after the hatchling had drunk his fill, did the Praxian drink from his tankard.

 

“Polihexian Neo Cybex,” Prowl said as they rest a while after finishing their fuel. The mechanisms around them may have been only starting their joors, but they had been up all dark-cycle. Jazz listened intently, trying to translate the glyphs in his helm as the crystal dragon spoke slowly, and over enunciated for his benefit. “I will learn it.”

 

“Sure,” Jazz agreed. “Smart... Smart.”

 

On the way back to the ship, as the time had come to board, Jazz stopped at the storefront of a bookseller and left the Praxian pair for just a few kliks. He came out, still fitting his purchases in his subspace, all except one. Jazz gave the oversized plush Krystar iron-bear to Bluestreak, who immediately put snout in his mouth and chewed at it. Prowl chuckled, and smiled softly at his sparkling. It was the softest expression the sea dragon had seen on him yet. Even more than normal sparklings, hatchlings explored their worlds with their mouths. Bluestreak was a healthy, and normal hatchling for all his horrific start.

 

By the time they arrived back at the ship, the sparkling was nuzzling his new treasure. A sailor showed them to their cabin, making funny faces at the bitlet as he showed them in. Jazz resisted the urge to snarl a warning. This mech was no threat to the bitlet or his originator, and it would only be a helm ache for all involved if he lost his helm. They were not the only passengers, there were twenty such cabins, all likely as small as this one. Someone, likely the captain had ordered a containment berth attached to the cabins only recharge slab. But of course, they were playing mates, it would have been a given that they would recharge together. Bluestreak had never recharged in one of these sparkling berths, and he resisted for a couple of breams before finally cuddling up with his bear and falling into recharge. Prowl sat to the side of the containment berth, and beckoned Jazz join him.

 

“We... will... share,” he declared, over enunciating again. Honestly, it was such a relief, Jazz could not resist a big grin.

 

“Thanks,” the sea dragon replied. Jazz took the far side of the berth, though he would have preferred to be closer to the door, there was no way Prowl would allow anything or anyone to rest between himself and his hatchling. As they settled onto their rented berth, the sea dragon felt the vessel push away from the dock, and sail into the sea. Most of the passengers would be gathered on deck, to watch the shore shrink from few. The three dragons recharged instead.


	24. Office/Workplace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation from Enemies, Neighbours, Coffeeshop

In the past, the place Prowl had always felt most at ease was his office, and he had spent more time there than in his habsuite. If not visiting Bluestreak in Praxus, his ornends had always been spent working in this space. So much had changed, he had changed and Prowl was surprised by this realization. Sitting in his chair, the tactician found it difficult to think, or to focus on the work. All of his thoughts were on Bluestreak. His youngling had made impressive strides over the quartexes, thanks to the close care of his therapist. The distance he tolerated between himself and his originator had grown steadily, Prowl thought he himself was struggling more with allowing this distance. It was imperative that Bluestreak redevelop his independence and sense of self, and he had to do this without his originator hovering over him, but the adult Praxian found it difficult not to hover. Outside of his episodes, when they spoke, Bluestreak was distressingly well-mannered. It should not have been distressing to have a well-mannered youngling, Prowl should have been pleased, he thought he should have been pleased but instead he was anxious. When Bluestreak spoke to him, it reminded Prowl of how he might speak to a teacher, or another authority figure. His creation spoke to him like he was a stranger.

“Prowl?” Jazz said, and the Praxian lifted his helm out of his servos. There was a mug of dark fuel in the Polihexian’s servo. “Figured ya could use this. How ya holdin’ up?”

“I feel like a brooding turbofox,” Prowl replied. He took the proffered fuel. At home he had already had two cups, but recharge had been all but impossible the prior dark-cycle.

“Seems to me ya got the right,” the saboteur said.

“I did not brood when I carried him, or after he emerged,” the Praxian scoffed. The admission left his tank churning with the memory of dejection.

“From what ya said, I don’t if ya woulda been allowed to,” Jazz replied. Of course, he was right.

“He is doing very well,” Prowl said, not wanting to think of the impotence he had felt trying to learn how to care for his newling, faced with his in-laws domineering ways. “I am not. I cannot think.”

“Y’re worried ‘bout ‘m, ‘bout raisin’m alone,” the Polihexian said. “’Bout everythin’. Yer thinkin’ but ya don’t got control o’ it. Not how y’re used to dealin’.”

He was right. Technically, Prowl was thinking, he could not stop thinking but the thoughts were intrusive, and unhelpful. They had his spark spasming or sinking. Despite his attempts to take control over his reactions, and to use his tactical systems to suppress his chaotic thoughts and emotions, his tactical systems only seemed to feed on his fears. It was a set up for a crash, and that was something the Praxian could not allow. Prowl had not crashed in Bluestreak’s presence since he had been a tiny sparkling, with all the gains his youngling had made, the tactician thought there was a not a lot he could do that would be worse. Bluestreak needed stability, Prowl needed to be stable.

“Drink the slag, Prowl,” Jazz ordered. “Best I could do wit the crystal’s in stock. Don’t know if anyone can brew it just like you.”

“It is decent,” the mech in question said after he took a long drink. “It could be stronger. The only Autobot I have found that takes their crystal energon like me is Ratchet.”

“He won’t be happy that y’re usin’ it as a sub for recharge,” the saboteur warned.

“He can be a hypocrit,” Prowl said. It was not said with malice, but merely a statement of fact.

“Medics are the worst at takin’ their own advice,” Jazz agreed. “Come on, Prime wanted a quick officers’ meetin’ while y’re in the buildin’. Everythin’s handled. Got Ultra Magnus on the schedule, ‘n I know ya gettin’ reports from Tactics. It’s all good.”

Usually he chaired the meetings, Optimus Prime was the spark of the Autobot cause but he was not much of an administrator. Quite simply, the Prime wished to please everyone, compromise was rarely terribly pleasing and in order for an organization such as the Autobot army to operate efficiently, compromise and sometimes dictatorial command was required. It was Prowl who arranged the compromises, demanded obedience to strategies planned over quartexes and vorns. Prime was loved, Prowl was resented, he accepted the burden. If ask his reasons for a decision, the tactician gave them freely, mostly he was obeyed with grumbled ventilations. It might have been exhausting except he had long grown used to resentment, both as the bearer and the recipient.

Normally Prowl had not problem attending and directing meetings. But this mega-cycle he was tired, and totally unprepared for whatever was to be discussed, and he loathed being unprepared. Funny how Jazz had become his shield. The saboteur and he had not met on good terms, and though Prowl had some regret for what had transpired, he would have made the same decision, and reaped the consequences even with the benefit of hindsight. At the bridge in Polihex, he could only safe one mech, and he had chosen Jazz. When the Polihexian had turned back for his team, Prowl had held him back, and had stopped him from falling to his death as the bridge gave way. It had been an easy decision, compared to every operative under the saboteur’s command, he was the most impossible to replace.

It had become clear quickly that Jazz would not forgive him that decision, but it seemed something had changed, or everything had changed. Instead of resentment and barely restrained impatience, Jazz now treated him with consideration, and generosity, and the tactician was not entirely sure what to make of it. Empathy seemed like such an odd trait for an operative, especially one with Jazz’s particular history. Prowl had predicted that the mech would crumble under the combined weight of what he had done, and what had been done to him, vorns ago, but Jazz showed no signs of collapse. He was an unstoppable force, and he had directed that force on Prowl. Multiple times an orn, he brought groceries to the Praxian’s habsuite, if Prowl had failed to forward him a list, Jazz simple guessed, and inevitably spent more, and he refused to allow the tactician to repay him. Prowl did not know how to push back against this kindness.

“It’s good to see you Prowl,” Optimus said as Jazz and he entered the conference room. “I recommend another cup of energon, before Ratchet sees you.”

“Too late,” Ratchet called as he entered just steps behind the SIC and TIC. Prowl’s doorwings flicked up. Sneaking up on a Praxian was perfectly possible but Primus, not from behind! “You need to fuel on something other than crystal energon, and you need to recharge... for an orn, but given the circumstances, just a dark-cycle would be a good start.”

“I am trying,” Prowl said, through clenched denta. His doorwings fell down again. He had not intended to speak with so much force.

“I’m giving you a prescription, it won’t knock you out, Prowl, but it’ll take enough of the edge off so you can shut that processor of yours down for a few joor,” the medic said. “After you recharge, you need to look at your upkeep. When was the last time you touched up your finish?”

“I would not know,” the tactician admitted. “Before.”

“Any help ya need,” Jazz offered softly.

Prowl knew they were right, though that did not stop him from feeling ganged up on. He looked down at his arms, and saw patches were the paint had been all but scuffed away. Some of it was accidental damage from responding to Bluestreak’s terror, some the Praxian realized were self inflicted. When he had been young, he had often scratched the paint from his arms and legs when under stress, a subconscious stim of sorts. It had been a long time since he had fallen into this behaviour. It was not good for Bluestreak to see him in such disarray, not when the mechling needed to focus on getting better.

“I didn’t ask Jazz to bring you here to badger you, Prowl,” Optimus said. “I didn’t want to invade your space, or stress your youngling, or I would have come to see you at home. We’ve collected a token from your comrades.”

Optimus held out a credit slug, and Prowl slowly reached to take it. He hesitated to check the sum, but after stealing himself, he the originator looked. The Prime large servo was heavy between his shoulders. That weight might have been the only thing that stopped Prowl from dropping inward and losing himself to the processor loop that would inevitably lead to a spectacular crash. Somehow they had collected a stellar-cycle’s worth of wages, and handed it all over to him as though it were nothing. Despite himself, his plating clattered. His first instinct was to refuse it, not so much in pride, but disbelief. Prowl knew, of course that he needed to accepted it, accept the generosity and the aid. Instead of saving for a new berth, because he had given Bluestreak his, he could buy one now, he could buy Bluestreak what he needed, to fund any educational or medical expense.

“Thank you,” he said, keeping his helm down, feeling certain he would crash if he looked at any of their faces.

“You are a valued member of the Autobots,” the Prime declared. “Your even servo has been missed. That said, I don’t want to see you back here until you are steady on your peds. Grieve, and process, and love your youngling.”

“Got some time left in Blue’s session, don’t ya Prowl?” Jazz asked.

“I do,” Prowl confirmed. He wanted to hide. Prowl could not fathom the generosity of his commander and colleagues, he simply could not fathom it.

“Then why don’t you ‘n we go to the washracks off the officers’ lounge ‘n see to yer paint,” the Polihexian offered.

“An excellent idea,” Ratchet interjected. “I’ve sent you the prescription, Prowl. Take it this dark-cycle. I promise you’ll online if Bluestreak needs you.”

“Alright,” Prowl conceded to both mechanisms.

The lounge was mysteriously empty when he and Jazz arrived. Though Prowl supposed it was easy enough for Prime to empty it during the middle of the work-cycle. He was glad, glad and grateful. Just the goodwill from these three mechanisms had been enough to have his helm reeling. If anything, he had imagined his subordinates and colleagues would have resented his leave of absence, considering what had been whispered after Praxus’ fall. Guilt might have loosened some credit slugs, and he felt dubious for benefiting from it.

“Some o’ this is deep,” Jazz observed as he turned Prowl’s arms over. “Blue have some bad terrors?”

“I have some bad habits,” Prowl confessed. “I used to scratch off my paint in... difficult times. I had not realized that I had fallen back into it.”

“Ya been on autopilot,” the saboteur said. “Let’s see if we can’t get ya payin’ more attention, hmm? Get ya doin’ somethin’ else wit yer servos when ya need a distraction.”

“I do not have any hobbies,” the Praxian replied. “I am not good at anything but my work.”

“Who in the frag told ya that?” Jazz asked, and he gripped Prowl servos tight.

“What do you mean?” Prowl asked in return.

“Who the frag said that to ya?” The saboteur asked again.

“It is not a matter of being told, it is a matter of reality,” the Praxian said, somewhat confused by Jazz’s visible anger.

“Someone told ya ya weren’t good enough,” Jazz replied. “Good at... dancing? Joking? Playing?”

“I do not think I ever played,” Prowl said. “I studied...”

“Mech, ya got fragged over big time,” the Polihexian sighed.

“I was a defect in a youngling centre, studying was a way out of inevitable poverty,” the tactician said, residual anger rising and falling. He had been one of fifty in that centre, and the only one with a glitch. Most with his condition were terminated in forging when the defect was detected. He did not know why he had not been. Since he had been surrendered shortly after emergence he generally assume the flaw was not detected until too late.

“Explains why ya don’t wanna rely on anybot,” Jazz replied. “We’re gonna find ya a hobby.”

“Jazz,” Prowl said, with tired exasperation.

“Prowl, y’re gettin’ a hobby,” the saboteur repeated. “But first, we’re gonna clean ya up. Yer younglin’s gonna be thrilled to see ya.”

He did not know how it happened but Jazz came along with him to the clinic where Bluestreak’s session was taking place. The youngling had moved on from in home sessions, a mark of progress just based on that alone. Prowl was grateful for the psychologist’s care, even if he felt like he did not measure up to the mechanism’s standard for procreators, not that the mech had said anything of the sort, and it was possible that the Praxian was projecting his own feelings of failure and inadequacy, in any case, Bluestreak had made great strides in his care, and that was what mattered.

“Origin!” Bluestreak exclaimed and he ran up to him as he entered the waiting room at the quiet clinic. “You fixed your paint!”

“Jazz helped,” Prowl replied. It was galling that his youngling had noticed, had almost certainly worried, and he himself had not. “Bluestreak, this is Jazz, our neighbour and my colleague.”

“Hi, Blue,” Jazz said. His voice was warm and gentle.

“You’re the one that’s been helping with the groceries,” the youngling said. “Thank you for the gifts.”

“Y’re welcome,” the saboteur said. “Do ya might if I see ya home. I was thinkin’ o’ makin’ a pot of energon chankonabe. Maybe I could bring over dinner.”

“Okay,” Bluestreak said. “Maybe you could show me the song you were play last dark-cycle. I think it went. Da da dada da...”

“I didn’t realize I was playin’ that loud,” Jazz replied. “Hope I didn’t keep ya up.”

“I felt it through the wall,” the young Praxian said, wiggling his doorwings. “I liked it. I like music. I don’t like quiet. I’m sorry, Origin...”

“I like music as well, Bluestreak,” Prowl replied, brushing a servo down the centre of his creation’s back to calm him. “I do not think to listen to it often. Whatever you would like to listen to, you are welcome.”

“I don’t want to bug you,” Bluestreak said.

“You will not,” the originator promised. “You could not.”


	25. FWB

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit more FWB inching towards full on lovers but details. Also this is awkward and porny.

Interfacing with Jazz had not been one of Prowl plans. Technically, they had not truly interfaced yet, but they kissed, they touched, and Prowl performed oral interface when the Polihexian revved up. It had started with Jazz massaging the kinks from his frame, and it morphed into something a little more. He knew Jazz had questions, why the tactician sucked his spike but did not want more than a little petting, though he had been able to rebuffed them easily enough. Because he liked pleasuring the other mech, had said as much, and it had not been a lie, and it was not because of any thought of debt or reward. Although he was grateful, and he really was, that would not be enough motivation for Prowl to share this level of intimacy. No, he found the mech attractive, and enjoyed the feeling of his servos on his frame. The warm bubbles of pleasure that slowly rose to the service of his plating, made him sigh. It was nice. It was enough.

“Y’re amazin’,” Jazz murmured as Prowl pulled over his spike, swallowing his transfluids. “Are ya real sure there’s not somethin’ I can do for ya?”

“I enjoyed it,” Prowl replied, and again he tried to dodge the question. “Or I would not have done it.”

“Prowl,” the saboteur said. “There’s somethin’ else. Come on...”

“It is too much trouble,” the Praxian said, finally, hoping that would be enough. It had been a naive thought.

“What’s too much trouble?” Jazz asked. “Interfacin’?”

“Interfacing with me,” Prowl explained. “I take too long to get off.”

“Did occur to ya that the slagger mighta said that too ya to get outta doin’ his part?” The Polihexian asked.

“It does take me too long,” the tactician repeated. “I do not mind it. Other seem to mind that I will not overload. The pressure to please makes it worse.”

“Blue’s havin’ a ‘chargeover at ‘Hides on the ornend, right?” Jazz asked.

“Yes,” Prowl confirmed. “I know he can manage any problems Bluestreak might have. But I am nervous.”

“I’ll keep yer processor off yer worries,” the saboteur promised. “Keep yer dark-cycle open.”

Considering he had not yet returned to regular duties, there was nothing for Prowl to do with the dark-cycle in question anyways. Still, he was nervous about whatever Jazz had planned. He knew that he had veto power, knew the Polihexian would back off the nanoklik there was even a trickle of discomfort or unease in his field or voice. Really, if he wanted to back out, he could, and though he was a little tempted, Prowl wanted to interface. As long as Jazz was not put off when he did not overload, it would be fine. When it was over, the tactician only hoped his friend was not disappointed. It was bound to feel good, Prowl thought as he poured flasks of engex. Jazz was talented with her servos, whether it was picking a lock, playing a guitar, or massaging the tension from another’s frame.

When Jazz arrived, a joor after Prowl had dropped Bluestreak off with Ironhide, the Praxian was a knot with anticipation and nervousness. Curiosity replaced anxiety when the other mech showed him the contents of the chest he had brought with him. Prowl thought his in-laws would have been scandalized at the sheer number of interface aids held inside. He had not thought there could be so many styles. It dawned on the tactician that Jazz intended to use these, some of them at least, on him. Heat replaced nerves. His hopes for the dark-cycle grew considerably.

“I thought we’d start wit that engex ‘n a massage,” Jazz suggested.

There was no question Jazz had taken what Prowl had said as a challenge, and he had come prepared. Despite what he had always known of the mech, and what he had learned of the saboteur since they had become proper friends, Jazz did not like to fail, and he planned accordingly. It was a little odd being at the centre of the plan, but he could find no cause to complain in this instance. He passed a flask to Jazz, and led him to the berthroom. The berth was new, Bluestreak had insisted on keeping his old one, and Prowl had not found any reasonable argument against giving the youngling what he wished. Especially since he was managing to recharge through the dark-cycle in his own berth, more often than not, and thanks to the mild sedative Ratchet had prescribed him, Prowl’s recharge had much improved as well.

Once they had moved into his berthroom, Prowl stretched out on his berth, his half drunk engex waiting on his berthside table. As with every massage, Jazz took his time, kneading the stress from his back and doorwings, and with the aid of his magnets, the Praxian melted. It felt good, very good, and it felt even better as the Polihexian turned his attention to the joints of his doorwings, and turned the speed and pressure of the electromagnetic pulses up. True pleasure blossomed through his torso. Overload was not even a thought in his helm, but he did not care. This was lovely just as it was. When his core had heated up, Jazz urged him to roll over, and Prowl obeyed, a little regretfully.

“Open up for me?” The saboteur asked. “Gonna start wit somethin’ simple.”

“Show me,” Prowl said.

He pulled back his modesty panel. Moisture had accumulated at the rim of his valve. It was a promising enough start. The toy Jazz had chosen was small wand. He ran it over Prowl’s bumper, the vibrations it created ran straight to his spark. It was an unexpected sensation, confusing at first, but as the Polihexian used it to trace the lines of his chassis, Prowl’s sensors translated the sensations as pleasure, and he hummed with approval. When Jazz dragged the vibrated down his mid-section, the tactician canted his hips in anticipation.

“Ya look gorgeous,” Jazz purred, and he kiss Prowl with considerable enthusiasm.

That enthusiasm did not fade. He teased Prowl with the wand, tracing the Praxian’s array, without bringing the wand into contact with his valve or spike. The teasing is what had Prowl pressurizing, and groaning low in his throat. Jazz sang his praises, as he slowly dragged his charge up. Prowl was not merely warm, he was burning and it was so good, and almost too much. This was a problem, the tactician had experienced before. Pleasure would build and burn in his frame until it physically hurt, and nothing could push him into overload. It was not that he had never overloaded, it just took so much trial and error, and work. After brushing the wand over the mouth of the Praxian’s valve, Jazz abandoned it, and Prowl sagged as he caught his ventilations.

Jazz kissed him lightly, and Prowl thought that was it. He was not really sorry. It had been good, overwhelming, and good, and the tactician was not disappointed. Before he could say as much, Jazz took another toy from his treasure chest, and brushed the soft mesh feathers against Prowl’s doorwings, and down his chassis before grabbing the Praxian’s engex and bringing the flask to the supine mech’s lipplates. Prowl drank, and sighed as the soft strokes of the feathers kept his charge from fully fading, but without over stimulating him. Over the next joor Jazz went back and forth between light teasing and agonizing pleasure. Prowl never came close to the cusp, but he did not think to complain, or to call Jazz off.

A joor since they had started, Jazz was between Prowl’s legs, his mouth on the anterior node, just inside the lips of Prowl’s valve. Rings at three points on the Praxian’s spike vibrated softly. He threw his helm back as Jazz spread the folds of his valve apart and penetrated him with his glossa. Oh it felt good. Prowl writhed. The centre of his existence was between his legs and he burnt in the most fantastic ways. Prowl moaned the other’s designation like a prayer. Jazz pulled off just before it became too much, sending a command to the rings around his valve to slow their vibrations.

The stimulation did not stop. Jazz applied nodes to his chassis and the edges and joints of his doorwings, he teased him with the wand, with the feathers, he ate the tactician out like he was starving, mouthed his bumper. Prowl led out a hoarse cry as he toppled into overload with the Polihexian’s digits in his valve, it hit him hard, without warning. As he quaked, Jazz pulled his digits free climbed up his frame and sank his spike into Prowl’s spasming valve. Mouths locked, the saboteur thrust deep and firm, again and again, drawing out the Praxian’s overload. As ecstasy surged through his every circuit, Prowl clung to Jazz’s cries becoming glyphless until the other spilled inside him. They sagged onto the berth, limp and exhausted. Breams later, Prowl woke to the sensation of a cloth running over his array.

“I should not have doubted you,” he mumbled, tiredly.

“Good then?” Jazz asked.

“Incredible,” Prowl replied. The Polihexian bent over and kissed his mouth.

“Sayin’ things like that does wonders on a mech’s ego,” he chuckled.

“You spent so much time on me,” the tactician said.

“I enjoyed every klik,” Jazz promised. “I got some ideas on what to try next time.”

“You want to do that again?” Prowl asked.

“Frag yes,” the saboteur said. Tired as he was, the Praxian could only beam.


	26. Sex Worker

Prowl did not look up from his lap. When his partner had invited him along to this club to watch a show, along with other Enforcers from their precinct, the quiet Praxian had been elated. His social life had been none existent since Tumbler had left him, since he had returned to Praxus from Iacon, and it had never been exactly packed before. He and Barricade were not friends, Prowl would not say they were even friendly, but he had thought that socializing a little this dark-cycle might help bridge some of the gap. A concert had seemed like a safe venue. Except this was not a traditional concert, the tactical Enforcer could not have been more horrified and humiliated, it was quite simply not possible. On stage, a Polihexian sang a lively song, as he gyrated on stage, accompanied by a band and back up dancers, every one of them had their panel retracted, their pressurized spikes, and valves exposed. A crystal cap covered the tip of each spike as other crystals dangled between spread valve lips. The audience was not even listening to the song, his colleagues were not listening, they were hooting and hollering.

Sitting right at the front, there was no safe place for Prowl to look but down. That did not save him from seeing the mech dancing right in front of him. The stage was not terribly high, it did not shield his doorwings from the scene. There was no memory the Praxian could think of that had been more humiliating, not even walking in on Tumbler and Mach in his own berth. Shows like this were legal, but they were indecent, and had Prowl known where he was being taken he would never have agreed to come. When the work orn began he was going to request severing his partnership with Barricade, he was going to ask to work alone. As his... partner leaned over to the Enforcer sitting on his right side, Prowl slipped away.

He hid into the washracks, immediately questioning why there was a set of public washracks in the club. Intuitively, he knew, and Prowl could only grimace. When the music faded, he realized that someone was using the farthest most washrack, and based on the sounds, it was more than one someone. Disgusted, and disenchanted, the Praxian turned on his peds and left. The seats in front of the stage were emptying, Prowl moved to blend into the crowd. Before he could get far, a servo grabbed his arm, and as he moved to knock it away, he realized it belonged to Barricade, behind him were their colleagues.

“Well come on,” his partner said. “There’s a private show.”

His glossa caught in his mouth, and Prowl let himself be dragged along. He was shoved into a room, the door shut. A private show... That was what Barricade had said. Damn it. Damn it and damn him. When had he become such a coward? Erotic dance was not illegal in this district in Praxus, but prostitution in these sorts of establishments certainly was, and his colleagues were not just aware of what was happening in the club, they were a party to it. Prowl was enraged. They thought he would go along with this? Given his reputation was a strict administrator and rule follower, they thought he would go along with this? The Enforcer was certain his colleagues had all arranged their own private shows and so he waited until there was no further movement in the hallway and reached for the door.

“Hello handsome,” a voice drawled to his left. He cringed, and turned.

“I am not interested,” Prowl said, looking to the side, up at the ceiling, anywhere but at the mech. It was the lead singer, the Polihexian. Primus, Barricade must have thought he was doing his stiff partner a favour. Surely he would not spend this amount of shanix in jest.

“Yet y’re here,” the Polihexian replied, voice sounding bemused. If Prowl was not being mocked by his colleagues, he was being mocked by a... by this mech.

“I am leaving,” he said.

“No,” the performer said, lunging forward, catching his servo before he could trigger the door. “Bad idea, Mech.”

“Why?” Prowl asked, annoyed to have his escape hampered. He wanted to go home and shower for the next two mega-cycles.

“’Cause yer friends are wit the boss ‘n they’ll get notified if that door opens before our times up,” the Polihexian explained. “Ya don’t want that.”

“Why not?” The Enforcer asked. Except he knew, his spark sank and his tank threatened to purge. He knew.

“Why don’t ya sit?” The mech said, gesturing to a wide lounge.

“No,” Prowl said, emphatically, flicking his doorwings up as he shook his helm.

“Now why not?” The performer asked.

“Can you tell me no one had interfaced on that?” The Praxian asked.

“Everythin’ gets sanitized,” the other mech laughed.

“It does not matter,” Prowl said. He took a step back, away from the performer, his plating flared.

“Never sit somewhere if ya think another mechanism’s fragged on it?” The Polihexian asked, still laughing, still teasing.

“No!” The Enforcer exclaimed, for more forcefully he might have intended.

He had destroyed the berth after Tumbler had left. Then he had looked at the couch and imagined how many times they might have interfaced, listening to some music or watching the holo-imager, and Prowl had destroyed the couch too. The table, his desk, everything that had been his to destroy, the jilted Praxian had taken anything and everything his faithless lover might have loved his paramour on, leaving nothing but the walls, counters and washracks intact. Prowl would have destroyed those too but they had belonged to the building, and as such he was forced to leave them undamaged. It had been a considerable struggle. Such wanton release of temper had been costly, and the Praxian had only been able to purchase a berth and a desk when he had relocated to back home to Praxus. Of course, by now he might have afforded the furnishings he still needed, but Prowl had not yet purchased anything. His only use for his habsuite was recharge and work.

“Sounds to me like someone hurt ya,” the performer said, no longer teasing. “’M Folgare... What do they call ya?”

“Prowl,” he replied. The serial number on his doorwings would have made his identity easy enough to discover. There was no purpose in lying.

“We could sit on the floor?” Folgare offered. “It’s safe.”

He did not want to sit, neither did he want to stand. But Prowl believed this mech, Folgare had no reason to lie about something like this. The syndicate owned this club, and in his pocket were at least six Enforcers, ranging from metaforensics, to organized crime. His own partner was no doubt the organizer of this duplicity, and by being his partner, by his choice or no, Prowl’s own reputation was forfeit should the truth become known. It would, the Enforcer thought, it had to, if by his own glyph. But reporting this scandal would come at considerable risk. Members of the syndicate, his own partner, would probably be watching him after he returned home. If they thought he could not be trusted...

“Come on, sit down,” the Polihexian said, leading him from the door. Prowl offlined his optics as the entertainer pushed him down. He could smell the mech’s transfluids and lubricants. His tank rolled violently. “Easy, handsome, don’t be sick on me.”

Prowl buried his helm in his knees and tried to suppress his nausea. Purging would be humiliating. He heard the other mech walk away, and the Praxian thought of what he might do if the Polihexian was in league with the syndicate, and merely using kindness to weed out a threat. Only a few nanokliks later, Prowl heard the mech approach, heard him sit, just centimetres from his right doorwing. Thankfully, Folgare did not speak, did not touch him. As he gained control over his tank, and righted his processor, Prowl found his centre, and he lifted his helm and looked pointedly across the room. He looked down when something nudged his servo... an energon cube.

“I didn’t see ya drink,” Folgare explained. “Ya got two joors to burn, might as well fuel up.”

The Enforcer stared at the proffered cube. It could have been poisoned. With that thought circling in his helm, Prowl did not pick it up. He was low on fuel, he had forgotten to grab a cube during his break, technically, he had not taken a break. Fuelling would indeed be logical, but it could have been poisoned, and Prowl was not desperate for energon just yet. To his right, he heard a chuckle. Prowl knew he was probably being ridiculous but there was something to be said for caution. Look where recklessness had gotten him? Trapped in a private room with a buymech while corrupt Enforcers met with the mysterious rulers of Praxus’ underworld.

“I didn’t spike it,” the entertainer said. “It’s just energon, not engex, not a mix, just energon. I could drink half, if that helps.”

“You could have a tolerance to any poison or drug,” Prowl replied. The mech outright laughed.

“Bit paranoid, but probably a safe thing wit the company ya keep,” Folgare said.

“I did not choose my partner,” the Enforcer countered. “I would prefer none.”

“That’s pretty reckless, ain’t it?” The Polihexian asked. “Shouldn’t ya have someone watchin’ yer back?”

“I do not have anyone watching my back now,” Prowl replied.

“’Spose y’re right,” Folgare said.

“How did you end up here?” The Praxian asked.

“Ran out o’ credits, the borrowed from the wrong mechs,” the performer replied. “The place pays, I’ll be movin’ on before long.”

“Be sure you do not incur anymore debts,” Prowl warned. “They will find ways to add interest.”

“Sweet o’ ya to worry,” Folgare said. “I learned my lesson.”

The performer drank from a cube of his own, and Prowl finally reached for his. It looked like energon, and he did have his fuel moderation chip in place. He took a sip, and waited. When he had no reaction after a bream, the Enforcer drank again. All he wanted was to go home, and shower and perhaps get dangerously overcharged. It had been his choice to leave the Enforcers in Iacon, Flatfoot had expressed some disappointment. Prowl may not have been popular with anyone, he had always achieved excellent results with his investigations, and that had always counted for more than popularity. If it came to it, the Praxian could always move back. Tumbler had gone into mnemosurgery training, Prowl would not be partnered with him again, he could make it work.

“Have you ever seen the Praefectus Vigilum here?” The Enforcer asked.

“No,” the Polihexian replied. “I know what y’re thinkin’. Be careful before ya think o’ taken this on on yer own. Just ‘cause he ain’t been here, don’t mean he ain’t bringin’ in the credits. Ya go no way to know.”

“The point of an investigation is to find out,” Prowl said. Blaster fire roared from beyond the door, and the Enforcer jumped to his peds, just a step ahead of the Polihexian. Prowl armed his own blaster as he drew it from its place in his subspace. He caught Folgare’s servo and dragged him behind the couch. “Stay.”

“There’s a back door!” Folgare replied. “We can get out.”

“I cannot,” the Praxian said.

It did not matter that this was a syndicate Pit, there were innocent, and not so innocent mechanisms in the building. Whatever they were, he was an Enforcer and he had given his oath to defend them. The door did not open so much as it exploded and Prowl was throne back. As he pushed himself up, Folgare was at his side. Three mechanisms filled the doorway. From the glyphs carved into their plating, he knew they were gangsters, members of one of the street gangs that struggled to find legitimacy faced with the far more organized syndicate.

“That one,” the first mech ordered and he gestured to the performer. Prowl shot him, shot him and the two mechanisms at his sides before they could come through the door. As they fell, a blaster flashed from behind where they were standing, he lunged in front of Folgare, and pain bloomed over the Enforcer’s chassis. He fell against the performer. His intakes struggled to cycle, and he coughed, mechfluid bubbled up from his mouth. This was bad. Frame growing weak and cold, Prowl brought his servo to his chassis, it came away sticky. More blaster fire, and the Praxian prepared for pain, but nothing came. Though he tried with all his might, he could not even lift his helm. Mechfluid filled his primary intakes and he rerouted his systems through his secondary intakes. Coughing violently, Prowl was seized with pain. Someone was kneeling over him, and he struggled to bring his optics into focus.

“Hang in there,” some ordered. That voice was... Folgare? No... it was not quite right. “This is gonna hurt.”

Pain! Something was forced into the secondary intake high on his chassis, and Prowl could ventilate, but the pain was such that his processor performed an emergency reboot. He came to nanokliks later, HUD filled with error reports. There was nothing he could do to address them. Though he was no longer suffocating, he was still dying. Mechfluid, a mix of energon and coolant pumped from his frame with every pulse of his spark. Someone was touching him, touching inside him, reaching for those ruined tubes. Prowl could not find the energy to online his optics. The buymech... had someone taken him? Had someone shot him?

“Clear the every room,” an accented voice spoke from... somewhere. “Jazz!”

Jazz... Not Folgare. Had the entertainer been killed? Had he fled of his life? Prowl forced what little reserves he still had in him and powered up his optics. There was a Towers mech in the doorway, a Polihexian, but an unfamiliar one leaning over his chassis. Towers mech... could this be the syndicate’s mysterious master? He tried to speak, to ask what had happened to the other mech, but the only sound that came out was a weak rasp. His optics dimmed, and Prowl could not light them again. His frame had gone numb. The last trickle of energy leaked from his frame and his awareness faded. With his last thought, the Enforcer hoped the entertainer had gotten away, and succumbed to stasis lock.


	27. Internet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Sexworker.

The gangland attack had triggered an Autobot raid on the club. A raid that had been in development for some time, without any Enforcer involvement. It had triggered a scandal that had shaken the establishment of Praxus to its core. It had been revealed that Autobot Special Operations had been investigating mecha-trafficking in clubs like that one within Praxus for a vorn. Praxus’ Enforcers had never been made aware, neither had the Lord, because informants early on had accused Enforcers of being more than just complicit, but directly involved in the daily operations of the syndicate. Five of the Enforcers that had come along with he and Barricade had died when the street gang had opened fire in the owner’s office, Barricade had disappeared.

Prowl had woken in the medicentre, two full orns after the attack. When he had first woken, he had found himself cuffed to the medberth, and he had been immediately deeply afraid that he was under arrest, that he had been tied to the illicit dealings of his partner and fellow Enforcers. A face he only dimly recognized had come into few, had explained he had only been restrained due to intake tubing that had only just been removed from his primary and secondary vents. The shots, multiple not singular, that he had taken had almost destroyed his ventilation systems, and he had nearly died more than once since arriving at the medicentre. Even after waking, he had remained in the medicentre for a full quartex, under armed guard, because the Autobots had decided as one of the few living witnesses against both the gang, and the syndicate his life was in very real danger.

This was how he ended up back in Iacon, in the Witness Protection Program. No one knew he was here, except for the members of the Autobot Special Operations that had deposited him in the Autobot owned habsuite. The case was moving slowly, as cases such as this were wont to do, and the Praxian was both bored out of his processor. No one was supposed to have any idea that he was in Iacon, it was supposed to be safe enough for Prowl to go out and about, with an Autobot shadow, but he had not bothered since shortly after he had arrived at the safehouse. As much as the shadow was meant for his safety, the Praxian loathed the sensation, and the knowledge that he was being followed. And so he had remained in the habsuite, leaving only when called for an interview with the investigators. They had spoken of their confidence in his safety, and he had believed them, until now.

A notification in his HUD told him he had received a message to his little used datanet inbox. No one used his inbox. For Enforcer duties he had used an inbox through whichever precinct he had been attached to. He had been estranged from his family for so long, they would not have had his ID. Tumbler did not have his current ID, Prowl had changed it when they had split. His ex had wanted to remained... friends, the idea of which had made the Praxian sick. What had Tumbler said as defence? Ah yes, that he had had needs, that it had been Prowl’s fault for being so reserved, so driven. As if Tumbler had not benefited from that drive, from the accolades they had received through their, or rather Prowl’s investigations. It had been those accolades that had given Tumbler access to the mnemosurgery training he had craved. Had it not been so convenient that Tumbler’s needs had stopped being met by Prowl after he had found a spot in the Institute’s training program. Convenient for Tumbler... Prowl shook his helm, and opened his inbox. The ID was not one he recognized, junk mail more likely than not. Prowl opened it, instead of deleting it outright, out of boredom more than curiosity. It was not junk mail.

_This is your only warning._

Along with the brief message was an image capture, Prowl opened it, and saw some mech’s greyed remains, laid out in a macabre display. The plating on the poor mech’s legs and arms was blistered and curled, the results of intense heat for a prolonged length of time. There was no question the mech had been tortured. Though the Enforcer did not recognize the victim, he guess the mech was tied to the Autobots’ investigation. He forwarded the threat to his Autobot handlers, and filed it away. Prowl was not particularly concerned by the threat. His ID had not been private, and so anyone who cared to look for it would have been to find it after some searching. It came as no surprise that they would threaten him, killing or intimidating of witnesses was a common tactic within organized crime. Such intimidation had a long history of success, it was one of the biggest barriers prosecutions in these cases faced. To Pit with them, Prowl would not be silenced.

_You’ll scream before the end._

More pictures, more threats. Every mega-cycle came another message. Prowl dutifully forwarded each one to his handlers and filed them for safe keeping. Maybe he should have been afraid, he would not have faulted and witness or victim in his own investigation for being afraid. But Prowl was not afraid, instead he was annoyed. The messages were coming at all joors, waking him from recharge, interrupting him while he tried to read. It was annoying, not just the constant interruptions, but the inability to address them himself. He had no voice in this investigation, no authority, and it was maddening. Impotence, helplessness, the Enforcer loathed the feeling, and with loathing came anger. When was he going to testify, when was he going to be done with this so he could return to his duties. There was no way Prowl would remain in hiding forever, he absolutely refused to consider the notion.

Whoever was sending the threats, he suspected someone tied to the syndicate, the methods of torture fit their reputation, was wasting their time. At best, Prowl was a minor witness, he had only been at the club briefly. Apart from being able to testify to a vague Enforcer connection, and presence of prostitution on site, the Praxian had not seen or heard enough. Even what Folgare had said to him, that the club was syndicate owned, was hearsay without that mech’s testimony. In short, Prowl was not much of a witness. The level of security the Autobots were providing him likely had more to do with the fact that he was an Enforcer, and a casualty in the raid. For all he knew, one of them might have been the one to shoot him, he honestly had no idea.

Still, the threats kept coming, the image captures too. With a level of detachment that came from vorns of investigations, Prowl memorized the images. They were of the same three mechanisms, two mechs and a femme, all of the images captured after death. He was probably not meant to recognize them as the same mechanisms, the syndicate would have wanted him to think that their reach was endless, and their resolve to kill unfettered. Prowl was a better investigator than these gangsters seemed to think, a more dedicated Enforcer as well, and so when his handlers did not answer his questions regarding the victims captured in these images, he started his own investigation.

After scouring the datanet for joors and then mega-cycles, Prowl found the identities of all three of the victims in those photos. One had been a buymech, one an accountant, and one a syndicate linked thug. No media reports linked these mechanisms to each other or to the trial unfolding in Praxus’ high court. It could well be that they had no ties to it, the thug had died before the raid, the others after. In fact the femme had only died in the last quartex. He wanted to know what their ties to the syndicate were, how they had been taken, had they been taken from Witness Protection, or from their own homes or businesses. The articles were vague, the Enforcers were not answering any questions, but then they would not. Though he searched the datanet for any sign or glyph of Folgare, Prowl never found any. Prowl told himself the mech would have gone into hiding, with or without Autobot protection, had he lived, but the Autobots had not once mentioned the mech, dismissed his questions. Would it be so difficult to tell him if the mech had lived, or if he had died?

A full vorn after the raid, Prowl had accumulated a large stack of threatening messages, and a frayed temper. Still he had not been called to testify, still his existence was this nondescript habsuite. He had done nothing, nothing for a vorn and he was sick of it. When a new threat came late in the dark-cycle it took the Praxian considerable restraint not to respond back, raining scorn and fury on the pathetic mechanism who thought Prowl could be intimidated. Instead he forwarded the threat on, noting that that the images sent along with the threat showed a new victim. As he rose from his berth, knowing any further attempts at recharge would be fruitless, the Enforcer brought the image back up. There it was, barely discernible through the damage done to the mech’s torso, as it floated in the smelting pit, the remnants of an Autobot brand.

Early in the light-cycle, Prowl received a notification through the comm line installed by his handlers before he had been deposited in the safehouse, the lead, or one of the leads on the case was on his way for a visit. The only reply the Praxian could think to give was the instruction to bring crystal pressed energon. His press, or rather the press belonging to this habsuite had broken earlier in the orn. He had informed his handlers, more because reporting the damage was the appropriate thing to do, rather than any demand they rush to replace it. Still, the lack of that particular poison was beginning to grate at Prowl. His particular tactical systems were a power vacuum and the time it took for his fuel tank to process slow release energon, meant the fog of recharge lingered and lingered, pressed crystal energon absorb quickly and offered an almost instant fix. Some orns he just about lived on it, it and rust sticks.

A joor later, there was a knock at the door, and Prowl went to answer it. Most mechanisms would being the resident on their arrival but the knock was a code put in place by the Autobots in charge of his safety. It seemed a little ridiculous to the Praxian, but he had gone along with it, no body had actually bothered to ask his opinion. Before opening the door, Prowl checked the camera to confirm the identity of his guest. Though he had expected one of his handlers to have come along, there was only one mechanism at his door, a mech the Enforcer recognized. Jazz, the Polihexian who had given him first aid at the club, and who had been at his berthside when he had woken in the medicentre. Maybe he could answer Prowl’s questions regarding Folgare. Maybe Prowl would insist on an answer, in return for his continued cooperation. Seeing the fuel held in the Autobot’s servo, the Praxian was happy enough to let him in.

“Thanks for seein’ me,” Autobot Jazz said as the door slid shut behind him. “Pressed energon, as ordered.”

“Thank you,” Prowl replied, he turned around and walked to the borrowed couch. There were a pair of accent chairs completing the set, but the Praxian had claimed this corner of the couch, filled it with pillows to comfortably support his doorwings.. The Autobot took one of the chairs. Prowl took a sip of his energon, it was not as strong as he might have brewed himself but it might have been ambrosia. He looked to Jazz. “You have come regarding the latest threat?”

“I did,” the Autobot confirmed. “Y’re lookin’ good.”

“There was no lasting damage,” the Praxian replied. “I believe you saved my life.”

“Favour for a favour,” Jazz said. “Ya saved mine.”

“I would think I would remember that,” Prowl replied. Before his optics, the other mech shifted. His armour flipped over, his paint shifted from white and black to shining silver, and then back again. “Undercover Enforcers Cybertron over would kill for that ability.”

“Family trick,” the Polihexian explained. “Reason why I had to go undercover myself. So Folgare could disappear after.”

“I had wondered if you lived,” the Enforcer said.

“My ops mentioned it,” Jazz replied. “But I had to make sure ya were as clean as ya looked.”

“I imagine I passed your background check,” Prowl said. “Or you would not have revealed your cover to me.”

“I spoke to Flatfoot, yer old boss,” the operative explained. “Ya caught’m by surprise when ya resigned. There were rumours, but nothin’ dirty.”

“I suppose you followed the rumours,” the Praxian said.

“Ya were involved wit yer partner,” Jazz said, confirming Prowl fears. “Since he bonded wit another mech shortly after enrollin’ in the Institute, ‘n ya returnin’ to Praxus, I figure the break up wasn’t pretty.”

“He would have remained friends, but I would have had to consider him a friend,” Prowl replied, not pleased to be having this conversation. But when it did come time for him to testify, any amount of this slag was going to be dragged up. “I found him and the other mech, Mach, together in _my_ berth when I returned early from a conference. He wanted to remain partners. We were a good team, just not good... _partners.”_

“Since ya ended up in Praxus, ‘m gonna say ya disagreed,” the Polihexian said. “Ya didn’t choose Barricade to be yer partner.”

“No,” the Enforcer confirmed. “I would have preferred not to have a partner at all, my result are excellent on my own. Tumbler benefited from my work, more from anything of his own. The Praefectus Vigilum in Praxus insisted on the partnership. Barricade and I did not socialize, we barely interacted even in our investigations.”

“He waited to draw ya into his circle,” Jazz said. “I got suspicions he looked into yer background too. Probably thought ya were lonely, an easy mark.”

“He was wrong,” Prowl replied. Oh he had been lonely, but the Enforcer was not _easy._ Not about anything. “You did not come here to discuss this.”

“Ya haven’t responded to anything of these threats?” the operative asked.

“No,” the Praxian replied. “I have forwarded them to my handlers, as I would have expected any witness or victim in any of my investigations.”

“Good,” Jazz said. “One of my ops, that op went missing last orn. We dispatched a team to track’m down. They found’m in that pit, too late to save. There was no one at the smelter when my team arrived. The only way anyone coulda taken that pic is if it was one of that team.”

“You have a mole,” Prowl said.

“No one but me ‘n yer handlers know y’re here,” the Polihexian assured him. “In this habsuite, or in Iacon in general. After they tried to get ya at the medicentre, I wasn’t takin’ chances.”

“There was an attempt?” The Enforcer asked, the news came as a surprise. He was hardly a vital witness.

“Before ya came around,” Jazz explained. “Ya know the other Enforcers didn’t make it.”

“Save for Barricade,” Prowl replied. “It was my understanding that he got away.”

“The other Enforcers were shot from within the office,” the operative explained. “Wit an Enforcer issued blaster. Barricade’s doin’, is my thinkin’.”

“Why?” the Praxian asked.

“Because he was... is the headmech in the syndicate, and those Enforcers were the most dangerous witnesses against him,” Jazz revealed. “The club’s puppet owner is holdin’ his glossa. My feelin’ is he’ll talk if the charges stick... For a lighter sentences, he’ll roll all over Barricade. Wit any luck, he can lead us straight to his hiding place.”

“I do not understand how I fit into this,” Prowl said. “I never saw the owner.”

“No, but ya saw everythin’ else,” the Polihexian replied. “Believe it or not Prowl, yer a big piece in this. ‘M askin’ that ya stick close to home until it’s yer turn to testify.”

“I have not left the habsuite in quartexes,” the Enforcer replied, blandly. “You need not worry about anyone seeing me, at least again.”

“Someone saw ya?” Jazz asked, sharply. “When? Who?”

“Tumbler,” Prowl replied. “Quartexes ago.”

“Frag,” the operative said. “I got find this Tumbler ‘n figure out if he’s got a loose vocalizer.”

“He is a gossip,” the Praxian replied. “Though who would care to listen about me, I do not know.”

“Unless I come to the door, ya don’t open it,” Jazz ordered. “’M yer handler now. Don’t even go to the store. I can take care o’ that slag.”

“Next time you come around, bring a new press,” Prowl said. “If I am to stare at these same walls for the foreseeable future, I want to be properly energized.

“Ya got it, the Polihexian said. “Why didn’t ya say anythin’ bout Tumbler?”

“Because it had nothing to do with the investigation,” the Enforcer replied. “He only saw me in passing, he did not attempt to speak to me. In fact, he pretended he did not see me. There was a mech I did not recognize on his arm.”

“Just to be safe, ‘m gonna have a talk wit’m,” Jazz said. “Judge is done wit lawyer games. Yer testifyin’ in three orns. All o’ this’ll be over soon.”


	28. Gym

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Enemies, Neighbours, etc. Prequel, of sorts, to FWB.

Ironhide’s gym was a favourite sparing ground for both Neutral and Autobot enthusiasts. It was not a school devoted to any particular martial art or combat style, rather it was a training ground where mechanisms could meet and spar using what ever skills they wanted. The old mech, a nickname given to him by greenhorns, there was no question the warbuild was millenia old, but he was nowhere close to expiring, taught classes in mixed combat styles, but still did not limit participation in the gym to mechanisms taking these classes. One of his few rules was a total ban on recruitment pamphlets and talk. Gym patrons muttered in low voices, wondering why a warbuild like Ironhide was not an enlisted mech, teaching these classes to the new recruits. So far as Prowl had witnessed, no one had dared as the Iaconian why he remained Neutral, in all likelihood no one would ever be so stupid, unless high grade or engex was involved.

Prowl had come across the gym by accident. Bluestreak had expressed interest in learning Circuit Su, one of the arts his originator had studied, and his therapist had expressed approval, and so Prowl had searched for a safe space where he could teach his creation the basics, without enrolling him in a class. Soon, Prowl believed Bluestreak would be able to enrol in a conventional school, rather than the at home tutoring he was learning under now, soon he would be ready to join youngling activities. Rushing any of it, however would only harm his meching, and beyond even that, their time training together was a way to mend some of the distance between them. He wanted, so desperately he could taste it, for his creation to hug him for more than just comfort after an episode. There was a wall between them he could not breech, and the elder Praxian was not at all certain if the wall was his or Bluestreak’s doing.

“Welcome back,” Ironhide greeted them as they entered the gym halfway through the mid-cycle. The timing was not accidental. Most of the gym’s regular patrons had functions that called for their attention during the better part of the light and mid-cycles, and so the earliest joors of the light-cycle and the early joors of the dark-cycle were the most popular. Bluestreak had made huge strides when it came to managing public spaces, but he still had his limits. To be fair, Prowl did not care for crowds either, and he had not excuse.

“Good mega-cycle, Ironhide,” Prowl replied.

“Hi!” Bluestreak said. “Are the Twins coming by after school?”

“That’s the plan,” the Iaconian replied. “They outta turn up before your origin’s finished with ya.”

The Twins, Ironhide’s youngling creations were Bluestreak’s first friends in Iacon. Tall and lanky, the split sparks did not take after their originator. Prowl had not interacted with them much at all, but he knew from Bluestreak that they had experienced a Pit of their own before escaping Kaon. It was that shared history of trauma that had allowed Bluestreak to open up to them. Though they sparred with the ferocity of seasoned soldiers, the Twins new their strength better than most younglings, and they were careful with their Praxian friend. Even when he was having rougher mega-cycles, the opportunity to see his friends was enough motivation to get Bluestreak out the door. And if that meant he and Prowl only sat along, watching the other mechanisms train, that was fine.

Bluestreak was becoming more confident in his grapples, confident enough that they would be adding takedowns and throws in upcoming lessons, but this mega-cycle they would be focusing on learning to fall. This was a lesson of more importance for Praxians and Vosians than other frametypes. Landing badly could cause serious injury, knowing how to twist your frame in mid-air, or in a hold, before you hit the ground was vital. Some might suggest he was babying his youngling, or being overly cautious, but the originator saw no reason to rush Bluestreak’s training. They both enjoyed it, they related better through it, Prowl would continue guiding his creation’s Circuit-Su path as long as the youngling was interested. There would be no shaming or guilting if Bluestreak tired of it.

“Sunstreaker, Sideswipe!” Bluestreak called and waved as his friends arrived, just as Prowl had suggested a break. The timing of the break was not an accident.

“Play a little,” Prowl suggested. The youngling beamed at him, then ran off to his friends.

“He’s good for’em,” Ironhide said as he joined the elder Praxian at the edge of the mat. “Most mechlings and femmelings are afraid o’em, not that they don’t encourage it. Blue sees right through the posturin’.”

“They are good for him as well,” the tactician replied. “He feels secure with them. Not because they are larger, because they have never had a poor reaction to his episodes.”

“Blue’s helped’em outta one himself,” the Iaconian revealed. “If it’s just one o’em, they take care o’ each other better than even I can help, but if it gets them both at once, they feed on each other. Blue knew exactly what they needed.”

“What was that?” Prowl asked.

“A hug,” Ironhide said, shrugging. “It’s different each time, sometimes Sunny hates to be touched, but Blue seemed to know it was safe, ‘n right. Said it’s what ya do for’m.”

“It is what he needs,” the Praxian replied, softly. “To know he is not alone... He was in the ruins, surrounded by the slaughter for an orn before the rescue team found him. He told me he hates the silence.”

“After than, I would too,” the trainer said. “Ya got a good touch, teachin’m.”

“I am learning as I go,” Prowl replied. “I never taught, even when I was a member of the higher levels. Would you be able to assist me for the end of the lesson.”

“Sure, what’cha workin’ on?” Ironhide asked.

“Takedowns,” the tactician explained. “Or rather, how to not take damage if while being taken down. I cannot throw myself.”

“The Twins could learn somethin’ from this too, mind a broader audience?” The Iaconian asked.

“By all means,” Prowl replied.

When the younglings had settled, and were sitting at the edge of the mat, Prowl and Ironhide stood at the centre. The fact that the older mech was so much bigger did not disturb or otherwise frighten the Praxian, and he thought the desperity in their sizes might help Bluestreak feel a little more comfortable with his size. He had been terrorized by grown mechanisms, by warbuilds and Seekers, it was only reasonable that he would feel small and vulnerable. Prowl did not, he felt fully comfortable with his frame. They were not going to spar. This was the first time Bluestreak would be seeing his originator as a combatant, and Prowl did not want to test.

“Landing more to one side or the other is the principle way a Praxian suffers a dislocation,” Prowl explained. “It is important to learn how to make minuscule adjustments, in very short periods of time. “Ironhide is going to assist by sending me down.”

Over the course of a bream, the trained combatants demonstrated a series of takedowns and throws, each time Prowl twisted or shifted in a different way, either landing straight on his back, or on his shoulders. Each time, the Praxian jumped back on his peds without strain or injury. He explained what he had done each time, and demonstration the motion in as slow a motion as he could. Bluestreak and his friends were captivated. Prowl doubted he was a particularly engaging instructor, but the mechlings did not appear to mind his dry manner. At the end of the bream, he thanked Ironhide for his assistance.

“Why don’t ya take me down?” Ironhide suggested. “Last touch to show’em it really ain’t about size.”

“That is an excellent suggestion,” the Praxian replied. The older originator might have suggested it for his own creations’ benefit, but Prowl thought Bluestreak would benefit as well. “A sweep?”

“Sounds game to me,” the trainer said.

They faced each other, each took a hold on the other’s chassis, certainly from this position Prowl look small and vulnerable. He knew that in a proper fight or even a proper spar, Ironhide would not be just let him or any opponent just take him down, but this was just an educational moment, and as they shifted on the mat, Prowl found his moment and swept the larger mech’s peds from under him, and pushed him down onto his back. All three mechlings gasped. Ironhide chuckled with clear pleasure as Prowl helped him up onto his peds. It was only a matter of respect, though the Iaconian was more than double the tactician’s age, he was as agile as he had ever been.

“Size ain’t anythin’ against a good opponent,” Ironhide said. “Even if we’re an even match, it’s about who uses it better that nanoklik. “Ya got a good teacher in yer origin, Blue.”

“You were really good, Origin!” Bluestreak exclaimed as he ran up to him. “All that landing on your back, it really didn’t hurt?”

“The first trick, Bluestreak is to adjust your sensors,” Prowl explained after they said their good-byes. “So long as you land right, and your sensor input is as manageable levels, your back plate takes most of the impact.”

“You must have practised for so long,” his mechling said.

“I did,” the originator replied. “I have not kept up my training. Teaching you is an excellent way to remind myself of my old lessons.”

“Why’d you stop?” Bluestreak asked.

“I had my duties with the Enforcers, to your progenitor, and to you,” Prowl explained. “I did not think to take the time.”

“Did you miss it?” The youngling asked.

“I did, sometimes,” the elder Praxian admitted. “Mostly when I was alone.”

“You took me at first,” Bluestreak said. “I remember. “You brought me back to ‘Genitor.”

“The courts thought he would be a better guardian,” Prowl explained, as kindly as he could. “I... did not agree. He was a loving progenitor. I know you miss him.”

“I missed you,” his creation said. “Grand-genitor told me it would be easier if I didn’t see you much. Because you were going to die in the war. But he died. They died. They all died. You didn’t die.”

“Oh Bluestreak, it was cruel of him to say that to you,” the originator replied. He hugged Bluestreak to his chassis, for his own benefit more than anything. Crosscut could rust in the Pit.

“I’m scared you still will,” Bluestreak revealed, he shivered and hugged his originator that much tighter. “They killed _everyone._ They could kill you! I’m scared!”

“I do not need to go onto the frontlines to do my part,” Prowl explained, doing his best to reassuring his creation. “My part is in the planning, and on the rare instances I have been anything close to the thick of it, I have been in a sniper position. I can fight servo to servo, Bluestreak but my strengths are as a marksmecha and a strategist. So long as you are a minor, I will not be deployed. I will be safe, sweetspark, and you with me.”

“Promise?” The young Praxian asked.

“I promise,” the tactician said. “I thought we would make dinner for Jazz. A thank you for all his help.”

“But you can’t cook!” Bluestreak exclaimed.

“I am aware,” Prowl replied, grimly. “That, my love is why you are going to help me.”

“Okay!” The youngling said. He gave Prowl another tight hug before stepping back. “I love you, Origin.”


	29. Time Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I hate time travel. Yes it can be done well, but it's one of those tropes that annoys the hell out of me so I sort of cheated.

The Science Division had reported the development of a new... tool. Wheeljack was not responsible for the time machine, no a mech called Brainstorm was responsible for it. Knowing that the infamous inventor had not had his servos on the thing was slightly comforting, but only slightly. While not known for accidentally blowing up labs and himself, Brainstorm was known to cause havoc of his own. This was why his lab partner was Perceptor, only Perceptor could work alongside chaos without lashing out. In fact the scientist did well at diffusing Brainstorm’s nonsense. Unfortunately, the mech had as curious a processor as his lab partner, and so Perceptor was pushing for the machine to be tested. There was so much that could be prevented, horrors undone if the right mechanism went back in time.

 

Prowl was not naive. For every action, there was a reaction. Any action in the past would upset the future, and not necessarily for the better. He had ordered the device locked in the vault, much to the consternation of the scientists. Despite what they though, Prowl understood the temptation. Wishing for an easy way to fix mistakes, by preventing them was hardly anomalous. Even he was affected by hindsight. If someone stopped Starscream from building that missile, Praxus might remain, but maybe another city-state would not, maybe the weapon he or another Decepticon would build in its stead would be that much more horrific. If someone assassinated Megatron, maybe the old guard Autobots would cling to the caste system, and the old abuses. Maybe Optimus would never be Prime.

 

If he could go back in time, Prowl might search himself out, caution him to consider what was more important, a mech that he loved, or his obsession with his work. More likely than not, his past self would detain him as a Decepticon trick. Still it could work. Still. But but probably not. Prowl was not going to pull the time machine from the vault. He had been a terrible partner, and it had taken serious consequences, losing his lover, to make the tactician see and acknowledge his faults. It hurt to see Jazz moving on, to see him dancing with other mechanisms, to see him avoid Prowl’s optics with pointed ease. Though it hurt, the Praxian acknowledged it was his own fault, and while it was far too little too late, he had some integrity. Jazz was owed an apology, and apologize, Prowl would.

 

It was easier said than done, both to Prowl’s amusement and frustration. When Jazz had washed his servos of him, he done so completely. The tactician had been unable to find a way to draw him into a private corner. With the optics of the entire party on him, Prowl could not remain at the event another nanoklik, and so he left a datapad, his apology written on it, and made his escape. With practically every Autobot on base at the party, the Praxian could go anywhere, and find privacy. He could go home. But the thought of another dark-cycle in his cold and empty berth was not especially appealing, and so Prowl went to his office and pulled a pile of reports out of his inbox and went to work. Work had the effect of absorbing his whole focus, his most significant fault when it came to his failed relationship with Jazz, but in this instant, the tactician welcomed this flaw in himself, and he forgot the pain.

 

“Figures this is where ya’d be,” Jazz said, a note of accusation in his voice. Prowl’s doorwings dipped.

 

“I did not hear you enter,” he replied, uselessly.

 

“No slag,” the saboteur replied. “I figured ya’d be blamin’ me for not acceptin’ as ya are... I didn’t think it would occur to ya to apologize.”

 

“I neglected you, I do not fault you for wanting a better partner,” Prowl replied.

 

“Prowler, bothers me more that _ya_ neglect _ya_ ,” Jazz said. “I hate watchin’ ya work yerself into a crash, knowin’ nothin’ I do or say’ll slow ya down. Even now, ya didn’t go home after leavin’ me that note, ya came here to work.”

 

“I did not want to be home alone,” the tactician explained. Work was his favourite escape, where he could avoid his personal thoughts and emotions. It was not healthy, he had not realized how much Jazz had noticed, even though the other mech had over the stellar-cycles dragged him away from his desk, and his work, or at least tried to, over and over, beseeching him to rest or relax.

 

“Miss me then?” The Polihexian asked.

 

“Yes,” Prowl replied.

 

“Come home wit me,”Jazz said. “Forget this slag.”

 

“You will miss the party,” the Praxian replied.

 

“I was missin’ ya,” the saboteur said. “Come home wit me.”

 

“Okay,” Prowl said, standing from his chair. There would be more in his inbox in the light-cycle, there always was, and he had not managed to get much done since he had arrived at his office this dark-cycle. It would all hold, however, Jazz would not.

 

Jazz grabbed his wrists and pulled him in kissing him fiercely, Prowl was caught off guard, but he returned the kiss with open desperation, clasping his own servos around the other’s wrists in turn. He had felt cold and miserable since his lover had thrown up his servos and walked away. The kiss chased the worst of that away. For the first time in orns, Prowl felt warm. Even when they broke the kiss, the Praxian did not let go of Jazz. This had been what he dared not hope for when he had apologized, and as hopeful as it left him, Prowl also felt unsure. Could he really change, did he know how to? Because Jazz might have forgiven him this time, but what about the next?

 

“I love who ya are, Prowl,” Jazz said. “Yer dedication, yer brilliance. I want ya to turn these things on yerself sometimes. Give me a little more o’ yer time. I know war don’t wait, sometimes slag is gonna come up, and we’re all gonna be caught up in it. But I want that to be the exception. Can ya try?”

 

“I will,” the tactician promised, keenly afraid of the consequences of failure. “Will you be patient? Will you help?”

 

“I promise I’ll carry ya outta yer office o’ver my shoulder if ya run too late,” Jazz replied. “Let’s go home, sweetspark. I missed rechargin’ next to ya.”

 

“I missed you,” Prowl said. “Your music, your warmth. I missed you. I am sorry.”

 

“I forgive ya,” the saboteur replied. “Knowin’ I mean somethin’, it makes up for a lot.”

 

It would have been nice to claim that it was stellar-cycles before Jazz needed to act on his threat, but it was only quartexes. After a series of minor disasters had seen him glued to his desk, drowning in datapads, Prowl found himself hauled up from his desk, datapads scattering in the process. He was too stunned to fight, even when his lover carried him out into the hall. There were witnesses, more than the late joor would normally have have suggested. Jazz only put him down when they were on the road. Instead of being mortified, the tactician actually relieved, and he dropped his helm to the smaller mech’s and sighed softly.

 

“There is only going to be more in the light-cycle,” he said, more plaintive than he intended.

 

“It’d take ya orns just to dig outta that slag,” Jazz replied. “I’ll help, Optimus, the other’ll help. Mech, when ya drownin’ in datapads like that, tell a Bot. We all take it for granted that ya can fix our slag, we don’t mean to pile it on ya all at once.”

 

“Most orns are not like this,” Prowl said. “Some are worse.”

 

“Y’re gonna tell me when this happens, ‘n we’ll slog through it together,” the saboteur declared. “We’re goin’ home ‘n ‘m gonna carry ya to our berth in frag ya strutless. Work is gonna be the last thing on yer process.”

 

“I like that idea,” the Praxian said. And he did.


	30. Roommates

Though he remained on leave, Prowl still learned of Jazz’s mission, and the unfortunate fallout almost as soon as the Polihexian was evacuated to Iacon, though at whose behest, the tactician could not say. He did not tell Bluestreak right away, not when survival was still in question. The youngling had developed an attachment to their neighbour. Prowl had not wanted to introduce the fear of losing another loved one, unless he had had too. Thankfully, the saboteur had a formidable will, and he was finally on the mend. Finally... the Praxian could not deny how terrified he had been of losing the mech. It had been his decision, not Jazz’s, to keep this thing between them quiet. As much as Bluestreak loved Jazz, Prowl was leery of taken anyone on as a permanent partner. Bonding had been the thing that seemed to have changed Polaris, and the tactician feared even declaring each other Amica Endurae would ruin what he and Jazz had together.

 

It had been at Bluestreak’s persistent request that they had come to see Jazz as the medicentre on base where the saboteur was being treated. Prowl had been leery of taking his youngling back there, thinking the smells might trigger a dissasociative episode. His fears had been unfounded, Bluestreak was perfectly stable, and perfectly excited to see their damaged friend. As was always the case with operatives receiving long term repairs, Jazz had a private room. The procedure was not in place for fear the damaged operative might speak too freely while in an altered state, but rather that an operative might online hot, and accidentally damage a fellow patient. Medics knew how to approach these highly trained and highly dangerous patients. Ratchet had a particularly good touch, and he had been the medic in charge of Jazz’s care, a reasonable thing considering the Polihexian was Third-in-Command.

 

“My favourite neighbours,” Jazz said, smiling though his voice was strained. Weld marks crisscrossed his torso, a visible reminder of the damage he had survived. But he was upright, and he was speaking, and Prowl took no small comfort in the sight.

 

“Bluestreak wanted to bring you a gift,” Prowl explained. “We both wanted to see you. Are you up for visitors?”

 

“For you two? Any time,” the saboteur replied. The youngling placed a small planter with crystals levitating above it on the table next to Jazz’s berth. There was a soft hum as the crystals vibrated. They had been difficult to find in Iacon. Bluestreak had been elated to have found the arrangement.

 

“Singing crystals,” Bluesatreak said. “They can be your back up act when you can play again.”

 

“That’s sweet, Bitlet Blue,” Jazz replied, calling the youngling his own special nickname. “Thank you. I’ve been gone a while, how’d ya do goin’ back to school for half-cycles?”

 

As they sat down, Bluestreak regaled Jazz with stories from his first orn physically attending classes. It had been a huge leap, and he had done brilliantly. At Ironhide’s suggestion, Prowl had enrolled his youngling in the Twins’ school, one that specialized in teaching troubled or traumatized students. So far, Bluestreak was thriving. There had been a couple of comm calls where Prowl had had to talk Bluestreak down, but he had not yet needed to collect the youngling from school. As early as the next semester, the educational team assigned to his creation were discussing beginning to integrate the mechling into full mega-cycles. Bluestreak had every reason to be proud of himself. Prowl was proud of him. The thought still caused him some anxiety, even as he looked forward to the prospect of returning to his duties on base.

 

“When will you be discharged?” Prowl asked.

 

“Early as next orn,” Jazz replied. “Might be discharged to the rehab centre though. Ratchet don’t think I’ll be up for carin’ for myself for a while yet.”

 

“If you would prefer, you could stay with Bluestreak and I,” the Praxian offered. “You would not mind, would you Bluestreak?”

 

“No!” Bluestreak replied. “Jazz could be our roommate... I could give him my berth?”

 

“That’s a sweet offer, Blue,” the Polihexian said. “I don’t wanna kick ya outta yer own berthroom. Ya gotta have yer own space to study ‘n wind down.”

 

“Jazz can have my berth,” the originator declared. “The couch folds out.”

 

“I’d appreciate the help,” Jazz replied. “Not found of hospitals.”

 

It was a quartex before Ratchet surrender his patient to Prowl and Bluestreak’s care, insisting the contrary mech receive some physiotherapy in hospital first, and Jazz was all but chomping at the bit to escape his tender mercies. The medic had gone over the Polihexian’s rehab needs with Prowl, and while a therapist would come to the habsuite to assist him a couple of times an orn. Most of what Jazz needed was to rebuild his strength and endurance, and that was best done, simply slowly moving about the suite. Knowing the saboteur as both mechs did, Prowl was prepared to herd Jazz back to the berth, or onto the couch when he tried to push his frame beyond its limits, because he would do exactly that.

 

“Y’re fussin’,” Jazz observed as Prowl helped him into his borrowed berth. Prowl had purchased thick pillows for Jazz to rest against when he was awake in berth. He had also purchases a new, soft quilt.

 

“A little,” Prowl confessed. “I am glad to see you come this far.”

 

“Glad to be here,” the Polihexian replied. “In specific and general. Gettin’ cut in half was a new one.”

 

“With any luck you will not have a repeat experience,” the tactician said. “Rest. Ratchet advised you remain in berth, mostly, for the first orn.”

 

“I get the feelin’ ya memorized his handout,” Jazz replied.

 

“Of course,” Prowl replied. “I know you did as well, how else could you intend to break his rules?”

 

Jazz’s restlessness was hampered by his frame’s weakness, which made it easier for Prowl to enforce the medic’s orders. As he grew strong, he grew bolder and the Praxian had to remind him of his limits more and more. Those limits were extending, Jazz could stand for longer and longer periods, and moved his recovery into the livingroom, instead of the berthroom. Bluestreak brought Jazz his guitar, a truly inspired idea, and the saboteur was saved from going stir crazy, and it saved him from being cuffed to the berth for his own protection. Even with the entertainment of the guitar, both playing it and teaching Bluestreak more chords, Jazz could still push himself. It had come to the point where the mech had the energy, but not the physical ability to do anymore.

 

“You are not recharging,” the Praxian observed as he help Jazz back to the berthroom after his friend had joined him in the livingroom, late in the dark-cycle.

 

“Too twitchy,” Jazz lamented.

 

“I think I can fix that,” Prowl replied. He crawled into the berth, his helm between the injured mech’s legs.

 

“Frag,” the Polihexian cursed as Prowl kissed his modesty plating. “I like the way ya think.”

 

The overload that followed sated Jazz, just as the tactician had hoped it would. Jazz had a ways more to recover before they could think of interfacing fully, not considering how much stamina it took the Polihexian to bring Prowl to completion, but the Praxian really did not mind. He cared far more for his friend’s recovery, than interfacing. Beyond that, Prowl had gone vorns without it, quartexes was no great strain. Before he could climb from the berth his friend and lover caught him, and the tactician was afraid he had injured to other mech. Jazz just padded the empty side of the berth.

 

“I know that couch ain’t half as nice as this berth,” Jazz said. “Recharge wit me.”

 

“I do not want to hurt you,” Prowl argued.”

 

“Prowler, once yer down, ya ‘charge like the dead,” the Polihexian scoffed. “Come on, lover. I can’t massage the kinks from yer back just yet, so don’t go buildin’em up.”

 

Prowl had thought it would just be the one dark-cycle, or perhaps any time he performed oral interface on the other mech, but he had underestimated Jazz’s resolve. The sabtoeur was a stubborn mech, and he was content to cheat to get the results he wanted, and so he simply did not go to berth without the Praxian with him, and so Prowl had no real choice but to recharge with him, or risk the idiot straining himself. Truth be told, the tactician preferred recharging with Jazz, even platonically. It was reassuring to listen his ventilations and to know he was here, safe and healing. His injuries had been horrific, but Jazz was already well on his way to healed.

 

In the light-cycle, Prowl rose first and prepared Garbage-O’s and energon for Bluestreak, and set it aside for him. While he waited for the mechling and their... roommate to rise, Prowl brewed crystal pressed energon. As was his habit, he started his brew first, knowing it would take longer to heat and evaporate to his particular tastes than Jazz’s preferred concentration. He pressed the crystals, crushing them, and squeezing the raw energon from the pulp. Different blends of crystals combined to form different flavours. Jazz had a fondness for minerals crushed into his, the spicy flavour reminded him of Polihex. Just when his own energon had boiled down to a thick consistency, in appearance similar to oil, Prowl heard Jazz shuffle into the livingroom, and carefully lower himself onto the couch. Picking up both mugs, he brought Jazz his fuel.

 

“Thank ya,” Jazz said, leaning up to quickly kiss Prowl’s cheekplate before he could move away.

 

“I knew it,” Bluestreak called from the hall. Both mechs froze.

 

“Good mega-cycle, Bluestreak,” Prowl said, not acknowledging his creation’s statement. He might have liked to dart to the other side of the couch, to put some distance between him and Jazz, and to regain some semblance of respectability, but the saboteur was holding onto his elbow, effectively trapping him. “Your fuel is on the counter.”

 

“Thanks, Origin,” the youngling replied. He hopped onto the stool, picked up his bowl of Garbage-O’s and swivelled around. “I’m not mad, Origin. I like Jazz. He’s nice to you.”

 

“I like ya too, Bitlet Blue,” the Polihexian said. “Sit down, ‘n relax Prowl. Drink yer poison.”

 

“I did not realize you suspected anything,” the originator murmured.

 

“I know,” Bluestreak said. “You would’ve shied. I want you to be happy, Origin. Jazz makes you happy. You make Jazz happy. You give each other googly optics.”

 

“Y’ain’t e’er seen my optics,” Jazz replied, feeling the need to defend himself. Still he reached across the couch and gave Prowl’s leg a comforting squeeze.

 

“Ya, but you angle your helm,” the young Praxian said. “I know when you’re looking at origin’s aft.”

 

“Primus,” Prowl vented.

 

“You’re more relaxed after I go for chargeovers at Twins’,” Bluestreak declared. “Jazz is good for you. Don’t go running because you think its best for me, or proper, or whatever. You being happy is best for me. Jazz with us, is best or me.”

 

“Y’re my favourite younglin’, Blue,” Jazz said. “Are ya, alright Prowl?”

 

“I am,” the tactician replied. “I love you, Bluestreak. I want to put you first. I need to.”

 

“You do,” his creation said. “You both do.”

 

When Bluestreak left for school, Prowl finally relaxed. Having his creation’s approval was a validating, but it left him feeling under an enormous pressure. He had not attempted a single long term relationship since the disaster with Polaris, after losing custody of Bluestreak. Work had been his everything. That had changed, was continually changing as he focused on caring for his creation. Even when he returned to his duties, it would be Bluestreak, and not the Autobots that would have his priority, at least until his creation had grown. As much as he wanted Jazz, loved him and wanted him, he was doubtful of his ability to be a decent partner, especially when he was faced with balancing his duties as an originator, his duties as an officer in the army, and as a partner. Though he told himself Polaris had failed him as a partner, Prowl could not help but question if his commitment to the Enforcers had not been a factor, his in-laws had questioned it, which had been especially hypocritical considering Bishop had been Praefectus, and the Praxian knew all this. But the spores of self-doubt had been let loose vorns ago, and Prowl worried.

 

“I ain’t that slagtard,” Jazz said, his mug discarded, fuel consumed. “Ya only feel this way ‘bout yerself because he didn’t protect ya from his Pit scum procreators. I know ya got work, Prowl. I know that yer driven. I do too, I am too. We got this.”

 

“Do you wish to move in permanently?” Prowl asked.

 

“I do,” the saboteur confirmed. “Down the road I want to bond wit ya, ‘n when y’re ready, I wanna create wit ya.”

 

“You want to create with me,” the Praxian echoed.

 

“I loved Blue the moment I saw’m,” Jazz said. “I wasn’t sure if I’d want to be more than an honorary ‘creator. But comin’ close to dyin’ was educational. I had a lot of time to think when I was leakin’ out. I do want to create, raise a mechlin’ o’ my own. Yer creation. If, ‘n when yer ready.”

 

Prowl found himself to be with spark only quartexes after Bluestreak received his second tier upgrades. It had been earlier than he and Jazz had expected. They had planned on working at it for a while, but it only taken one deep merge. From the very nanoklik the expectant originator had revealed his condition to his new Conjunx Endura, and his youngling creation they had set about waiting on his servo and ped. His forge had not even begun to distend but that did not seem to matter to either mechanism. Bluestreak brewed his crystal energon, Jazz had never managed to make it strong enough, though he tried. Jazz prepared all other strange fuel he craved, brought it to him on base, kept his subspace filled with ruststicks, and most importantly, love him.


	31. Dealer's Choice - Slavery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not quite the finale of the dragon au. This evening didn't turn into a write night.

As could only be expected from a nesting originator, Prowl barely left the cabin during the voyage. While Jazz was quite comfortable in his biped form, the crystal dragon was not, and it only added to his feelings of vulnerability. Frankly, the sea dragon did not complain. Though he was not nesting, his guarding instincts had never been so high. He left the cabin to get fuel, and an occasional breath of fresh air, but mostly he stayed with Prowl, and Bluestreak. The waters were smooth, and calm and it was comfortable curling up on the berth, taking turn reading the bitlet stories. Written in the Polihexian dialect, the sparkling tales were a good place to start in regards to teaching Prowl the language, and Bluestreak adored being read to. Jazz thought he would work on his Primal Vernacular, once he got home and could borrow from his origin’s book collection. Languages were something he was good at, ‘Gen said he had an audial for it, which may have been true. Prowl was no slouch, he spoke precisely but the Polihexian had the sense that this was just his way of speaking.

 

They were only mega-cycles from shore when the ship hit rough seas. Poor Bluestreak whimpered and cried against Prowl’s chassis, the motions upsetting his tank. In the first joors, Jazz did not worry much, but when it lasted through the light-cycle and through into the dark that he got concerned. He left the originator to sooth his creation, and went out on deck. Jazz found Captain Kup struggling at the helm. For a nanoklik he wondered if he could slip over the side and nudge the ship on. Lacking sunlight from the light-cycle, the solar sails did not have the powers stores they ideally would, and the ship was slogging through the angry sea at a crawl.

 

“Ahoy, you come up here!” The captain ordered.

 

“What do ya need?” Jazz asked as he obeyed the old mech’s command.

 

“Can ya lead us outta this?” Kup asked.

 

“Got a rope?” The Polihexian asked, covering his shock that the grizzled old captain had guessed what he was.

 

“Springer, tie a rope to the bow, we need a fragton of yardage,” the Captain ordered.

 

A green mech, down on the deck, below the helm did as ordered, stepping out from his shelter and into the stinging rain. The rain did not bother Jazz, not even in this for. When the robe was secure, Jazz took the end and dove into the water, even as he doze, he transformed, slipping into the waves with ease and grace. Holding the rope in his talons, he swam. He was not a particularly big dragon, only about as long as the ship, but his sleek frame was powerful, and he guided the ship through the waves. If the sea dragon had had friends or kin about, they probably could have had the ship into smoother seas in no time, but being only one dragon, all Jazz could do was lead the ship steadily on. By dawn, they had found smoother seas, and Jazz dragged himself back up the side of the vessel.

 

“Thanks for the help,” Kup said, offering Jazz a steaming cup of energon. He drank, more to banish exhaustion than cold. “Havin’ one o’ you ‘round in bad weather’s always a blessin’.”

 

“Can’t say it wasn’t self servin’,” Jazz replied. “They ain’t sea dragons. Don’t know if I could keep’em safe if the ship sank.”

 

“Ain’t been sunk yet,” the old captain declared. “But only a fool takes risks the sea’s wrath. Should be clear sky’s ‘til Polihex. Off wit you now, I’m sure your mate’s been missin’ ya.”

 

“Mm,” the sea dragon hummed. “Hope the bitlet ain’t givin’m too much grief.”

 

Jazz towel dried before returning to the cabin. He found Prowl and Bluestreak curled up together on the berth, the surface was covered in storybooks. From the sound of it, the hatchling had settled enough to fuel, which might have been the first time in joors. When he entered, Prowl sat up, and immediately began to gather up the datapads. The crystal dragon looked tired himself. From the looks of it, he had read his creation every story, probably more than once, trying to settling him while the ship had rocked to and fro. With a contented vent, Bluestreak released his originator’s fuel line. Though he should have been tired, the bitlet perked up when he saw Jazz chattering excitedly. Smiling, the Polihexian gently tickled the hatchling’s mid section. Prowl brushed his forehelm against Jazz.

 

“You must be exhausted,” he said. “And sore.”

 

“A little charge is all I need,” Jazz assured him. “Smooth seas ahead ‘til Polihex. ‘M thinkin’ the two o’ ya ain’t had much rest either.”

 

“The only thing that distracted him from the rocking were stories,” Prowl replied. “I think my vocalizer is ready to glitch.”

 

“Well, Blue I think it’s time we all settled,” the sea dragon said.

 

He took the hatchling from his originator. Jazz would never have thought of doing this early in the voyage. But he had earned Prowl’s trust. Rocking the chittering mechling in his arms, Jazz sang an old lullaby. In a bream, Bluestreak was finally in recharge, and the sea dragon slowly, carefully lowered him into the containment berth. Bluestreak, was not the only one Jazz had managed to sing into recharge. Prowl’s ventilations were soft and even with recharge. The Polihexian snickered, and then yawned. He slithered up the berth, chassis to chassis with Prowl, the bitlet at his back, and was in recharge before his helm dropped to the pillow.

 

As Kup had predicted, the rest of the voyage was smooth. The ship docked in Polihex’s biggest port, a two mega-cycles journey by carriage from Jazz’s quiet village. It felt good, better than good to have made it this far. Even if they ran into trouble, there were ways for Jazz to call for his family’s help. There was no dragon fiercer than Punch if he thought his creations were in danger, and no dragons quicker than his ‘genitors to come answer the call. Though the city was not his home, it still had the smell, spice, and cyberfish. He knew Prowl would be happier when he was settled safe in a good nest, and so Jazz did not take the crystal dragons on a tour, instead he led them down the market district, heading towards the northern road, where he would find a carriage to rent. That had been the plan.

 

One nanoklik, Prowl had been beside him, the next the Praxian was darting into the crowds. Jazz went after him, and caught sight of what had stirred the mech up, just as he had caught up. Before Prowl could do anything insane, the sea dragon pulled him close, and crooned. Blue was whimpering, no longer curious about the sights and sounds around him, but terrified, his helm buried in his originator’s chassis. The cage was small, far smaller than the one that had housed Blue, and yet it held three crystal hatchlings. It was an unexpected blessing that Prowl could not transform on his own, if he could Jazz had no doubt that he would be lunging forward, sharp denta bared, and scaled catching the light. But the crystal dragon could not transform, and so instead of fighting the smaller mech’s hold, he shuddered with righteous fury, grief and horror, and soothed his creation, best as he could.

 

“Save,” Jazz promised, switching from the Neo Cybex they had been using moments before, to the old tongue. “I save... Come dark-cycle.”

 

It was a struggle to leave the port, not just for Prowl, for Jazz as well, but it was a necessary evil. Bluestreak had not stopped shaking since he had seen the cage, the poor hatchling unable to communicate the nature of his fears, but it was not difficult to guess. Instead of a hailing a carriage, Jazz led the crystal dragons down to the beach. They walked along the beach, beneath soaring cliffs until they came to a small cave, at the edge of the sea. The mouth of the cave looked vaguely like a dragon’s snout, and Jazz doubted that this was entirely an act of nature. Tide was low, and it was possible to walk right inside, come the dark-cycle, the sea would flood the mouth of the cave, but not the higher levels. They climbed, up and up until they came to a nest, lined with seagrasses, and other underwater flora.

 

“We’ll recharge now,” the sea dragon said. “I’ll scope out the shop before it closes up this evenin’, and in the dark-cycle, I’ll scoop’em up ‘n bring’em to ya... They aren’t yours?”

 

“They are not,” Prowl replied. “But they will be.”

 

He left Prowl, in his root mode, curled tight around Bluestreak. If the opportunity arose, the shopkeep was dead. If they would offer hatchlings for sale, they would likely sell all manner of dragon... bits, and even if they specialized in concoctions and treasure fabricated from the murdered remains of crystal dragons, Jazz felt no inclination towards mercy. Dragons of sea, sky and ground were all his kin, the trade in any was anathema to him, and he would not let it go unsanctioned. Casually, he strolled the market, buying this and that, acting as inconspicuous as he could as he made his way up to the shop showcasing those poor hatchlings. Concerned about showing any interest in them, and uncertain he could probably mask his outrage, Jazz perused the neighbouring shops, and listened as the merchant bragged to a customer about his rare goods.

 

“Naturally, I kept the pick of the litter for myself,” the shopkeeper, a purple and tan Polihexian, bragged. “Such a rare find. I had an incubator specially made for them.”

 

“Selling the eggs straight woulda been a better deal,” the customer snorted. “They’re a delicacy you know.”

 

Jazz ignored the rest of the slagtards hustle, resisting the very real urge to kill not just the merchant, but the scrap that would have eaten a dragon’s egg. Saving the hatchlings was more important than revenge, it had to be, and so he loitered, drinking engex at a nearby oil bar, and watching as the shopkeeper locked up his shop. For the dark-cycle, he brought the case inside, the sea dragon had expected as much. A locked door was no concern of his, he had picked his first lock before he had been fully stable on two peds. As the streets emptied, Jazz slipped into the shadows of a near by alley, and waited. Joors passed, and he waited a little longer still. Only when the city guards and moved their patrols elsewhere, did Jazz inch up to the door. Using picks his origin had given him, and let himself into the shop. There were peds step upstairs, like most of the merchants on this block, the slagtard lived above his shop.

 

The hatchlings whimpered anxiously when they saw him, but Jazz had come prepared. He tossed a blanket over the cage, the darkness had a calming affect on the bitlets. Gingerly, the sea dragon guided the rolling counter the shopkeeper kept the hatchings display on, and rolled it out the door. Jazz listened, listened for any sign the spawn of Unicron had sensed something was amiss. When he had the cage out in the open, the sea dragon look around, made certain the cost was clear, and then transformed. It was awkward, but he got a hold of the cage between his denta and he slithered into the dark alley, and up the side of the neighbouring building. Like a pneumalion, the sea dragon crawled up and over the roofs of the sturdier buildings, and slipped in and out of the shadows when he had no choice but the travel on ground. The alleys got more and more cramped, and he found himself with shadows to slither through. Desperation led him to the docks. A familiar dull blue frame stood on the deck of a ship. Kup jogged down the ramp of his ship.

 

“What treasure’d ya find to add to ya hoard?” Kup asked.

 

“Hoard?” Jazz rasped, his draconian voice still melodic, at least to his audials, but certainly strange to a mech like Kup. He pulled the blanket off the cage. The poor hatchlings were shivering with terror. He had had no way of keeping the cage still. “Wrong dragons, we ain’t hoarders.”

 

“Takin’ these home to your mate?” The captain asked.

 

“They need an origin,” the sea dragon said. “Not a master.”

 

“Gimme a klik, I’ll lower ya a lifeboat,” Kup offered. “Bound to be safe to tow’em along then runnin’ through the treets... Black back, white underbelly... Not bad camoflage.”

 

“Works pretty well,” Jazz agreed. “Don’t need to tell ya if ya frag me o’er I’ll eat ya.”

 

“If I turned you over, I’d deserve it,” the old mech replied.

 

True to his glyph, the captain lowered a life boat, and rowed it around to the end of the dock. Careful not to attack the attention of any other crewmecha on Kup’s or another vessel, Jazz inched along the dock, low on his belly while still trying to keep the cage up off the ground. Finally, he reached the boat, and lowered the cage into it. Kup held the boat steady as Jazz slipped into the water, and toss the sea dragon the rope when he raised his long, straight snout up to the dock. Before making his escape, Jazz pulled a loose scale free and dropped it at the old mech’s peds.

 

“Put it on yer figurehead,” he said. “It’ll tell my kin yer a friend.”

 

“Will do,” Kup replied. “Smooth waters.”

 

The hatchlings barely made a sound as Jazz towed them into open waters. He swam for home, or at least home for now, just within view of the shore. In the even with the bright glow of the moons, at this distance from the beach, no one there, or on the cliffs would see him, or the boat. It was not a long swim, though it felt like it. As much as it angered him to leave the bitlets in the cage, the risk of them tumbling overboard was far too high. Even though it was reasonable, even though it was sensible, it still made Jazz sick with guilt. When the angry mouth of the cave came into view, Jazz vented a great sigh of relief. In kliks he would have the hatchlings in the nest, in a few kliks they would be safe and warm.

 

Tying the boat well within the cave’s entrance Jazz pulled the cage from the boat, and slithered up to the level where he had left Prowl nesting. With a satisfying snap, he ripped open the cage, and one by one, placed the hatchlings in the nest with Prowl. They cheeped anxiously, intuitively recognizing the smell of a brooding crystal dragon, but terrified because they had never seen one before. Some day they would match him in size, but for now Prowl towered over them, even more so than Jazz. Bluestreak chittered with curiosity and shuffled over to the new arrivals. If he recognized them as the hatchlings he had seen in the market, there was no way to tell. But he huffed softly at the smaller hatchlings and nuzzled them lightly. One by one, the originator dragon nudged each hatchling towards himself, and one by one he licked the fake polish the shopkeeper had slathered on their scales to give them a greater sheen. They would shine, these little dragons, when they had a few quartexes of origin’s energon in their systems. After bathing each hatchling, Prowl guided them to his nozzles, and with some time, and with some frustration, each latched on and drank. When all the hatchlings, Bluestreak included, were taking their fill, Jazz slipped into the nest and groomed Prowl’s helm. The other dragon rumbled low in his throat. Soon the hatchlings were all in recharge, their tanks full, curled up against each other. Prowl nuzzled each one. Soon they would have his scent, soon they would imprint on him and they would never question who their origin was.

 

“There’s one more,” Jazz revealed in a whisper, neck draped over the crystal dragon’s, his long frame closing the circle around the hatchlings. “I’ll get him next, once I have you properly safe, in my nest, in my village.”

 

“Where is he?” Prowl asked. The mech had never even seen the hatchling but to him, it was clear by his voice, the orphan was already his.

 

“The slagtard’s keepin’m as a pet,” the sea dragon replied. “He’ll be in your nest before you know it.”


End file.
